Gigi Sinclair

Jon had always known there was a possibility he would be killed in the line of duty. Since the beginning of the mission, he had been reminded of that on several very memorable occasions, in several very memorable ways. The possibility of a permanent injury was always there, too, the idea that someday, he might be disabled to the point where he would have to leave active duty and rot in the tenth circle of hell, AKA Starfleet long-term sick leave. You couldn't afford to dwell on such possibilities, of course, so Jon tried not to think about it.

He'd certainly never thought he'd need open-heart surgery at the age of forty-six.

"You've got to be kidding me."

Phlox blinked. "While I do not pretend to understand everything about human culture, Captain, I would not consider this a humorous matter." Looking a little miffed, he indicated a scan on the screen. "As you can see, you have a very irregular heartrate and several blocked arteries. You will require major surgery and a biomedical implant."

"But I work out." Sure, Porthos wasn't the only one in the family who was partial to cheese, and Jon had always loved his Sunday morning bacon and eggs, but this was insane.

"This condition has little, if anything, to do with lifestyle, Captain. I am quite certain the problem is genetic."

"Hereditary."

"Yes." Phlox nodded. "Your father…"

"Died of a heart attack." Of course Phlox knew that. He would have looked it up in Jon's records. Which meant that he would also know Henry Archer was just seven years older than Jon was now when that heart attack occurred. "Can you perform the surgery?"

Phlox shook his head. "I do not have the equipment or the expertise. You will need to return to Earth as soon as possible."

"But I can come back, right?" Jon knew he sounded desperate, and he didn't care. 'Enterprise' was everything he'd ever wanted. She was his life. Well, her and her crew.

And one crewmember in particular.

"There have been great advances in this field recently," Phlox began, in what sounded suspiciously like a 'placating doctor' tone. "But the recovery process is still long, and you will be physically weakened for a long time. I doubt Starfleet will allow you to return to active duty in the foreseeable future."

Jon rubbed the bridge of his nose, suddenly wishing he'd just attributed the heart palpitations to being with Malcolm. Only they had been happening with increasing frequency, often when Malcolm was nowhere to be seen. "What if I don't have the surgery?"

"I cannot say, sir." But Phlox's expression said more than words could, anyway. "Your father lived to fifty-three. You may very well do the same." Fifty-three. Seven more years. Jon had figured on another thirty, at least. "Or?"

"Or you could die sooner." Phlox reached out, laying a hand on the captain's shoulder. "I realize this is not an easy situation to face. I would suggest you talk it over with Lieutenant Reed before making any decisions."

"Right." Jon sighed. "Thank you, Doctor." Phlox patted his shoulder and went back to his pets.

***

Jon knew how Malcolm was going to react, and he wasn't disappointed. Malcolm stood, blinking, in the middle of the room for a good two minutes before finally saying: "Heart surgery?"

"You know about my dad, Malcolm."

"But he was…"

"Seven years older than me."

Malcolm sighed. "Good God." That about covered it. Jon reached out to lay a hand on Malcolm's shoulder. As they touched, a look of horror appeared on Malcolm's face. "It wasn't that bacon and eggs, was it?" Jon smiled a little as he remembered the first time he'd woken up to Malcolm presenting him with his favourite breakfast in bed. It was the morning after their first night together and, seeing Malcolm standing there, holding a tray of bacon and eggs and looking nervous, was easily one of the top ten moments of his life. Hell, it was in the top three.

"No. It's genetic." Jon bent down and picked up Porthos. "I'm going for a walk, OK?"

"Jon…" Malcolm stepped towards him, but Jon put up a hand.

"I'll be back in half an hour."

He'd been waiting for someone like Malcolm his entire life, but they'd only been together for ten months. He couldn't ask Malcolm to give up his career to return to Earth with Jon. But Jon really didn't want to face this alone.

He let Porthos lead the way through the halls, pausing to greet crewmembers with a lick of their hands and sniffing at particularly entertaining patches of carpet like he was reading an epic novel. When they got to the observation lounge, Jon tugged on the leash and pulled Porthos inside.

Right away, he jumped up on the couch, and Jon didn't bother kicking him off. Instead, he sat beside his dog, staring out the window.

He knew it was only a matter of time before Malcolm showed up.

"Are you all right?" Jon knew this was Malcolm's way of saying he, personally, wasn't.

"No." Jon turned to watch as Malcolm came into the room and sat on the other side of Porthos. The dog rested his head on Malcolm's lap and Jon smiled as Malcolm, who just a few months earlier had been respectfully distant when it came to his lover's dog, began to automatically stroke Porthos's ears.

"You have to get the surgery."

"It's risky." Phlox had given him some literature to read and, although the operation had become much safer in the last few years, it was still far from a simple procedure.

"It's riskier not to." Malcolm looked over at him. "And frankly, I'm not too keen on the idea of you dying on me."

Jon smiled. "At least there'd be someone to take care of Porthos."

"He's your dog, Jon. I'm not interested in sole custody." Even as he said it, Malcolm continued to stroke Porthos, who rolled over onto his back, presenting his stomach to be scratched. Malcolm obliged him. "I'm coming with you."

"You can't give up your job." And there was no doubt in Jon's mind that was exactly what would happen. If Malcolm left 'Enterprise', he would spend the rest of his career Earthbound, perhaps with the occasional sojourn on Jupiter Station. The Starfleet brass weren't the most caring of bureaucratic entities. They didn't look kindly on people who left their assignments for any reason. Not to mention that, if Malcolm quit at the same time Jon left, it would be pretty obvious what their relationship was.

"I won't have to."

"What?"

"I looked it up, Jon." Of course he had. "A commissioned Starfleet officer posted more than one thousand kilometres from his home base is allowed up to six weeks compassionate leave to be with an ill spouse. This," he glanced down at Jon's chest, "Clearly counts as being ill."

"But I don't count as your spouse."

Malcolm didn't hesitate. "Jon, will you marry me?"

Jon's heart beat faster, although, he thought wryly, it was possible that had nothing to do with Malcolm's proposal. "I wish I could, Malcolm." And was that the understatement of the year. "But I'm your CO. It'd never fly."

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. "I was under the impression you were leaving your post."

It was a good idea, and Jon thoroughly appreciated the thought behind it, but it didn't work out.

Jon couldn't say he was overly surprised. Forrest was properly sympathetic when Jon told him about his medical problems. After discussing it with the rest of Starfleet Command, the admiral informed Jon that they were to dock at Jupiter Station, where Jon would hand command of 'Enterprise' over to one Captain Jeffrey Douglas. T'Pol would retain her position as first officer. After discussions with the Vulcan High Command, it had apparently transpired that neither they nor Starfleet wanted a Vulcan as the captain of Earth's first deep space mission.

As soon as they docked at Jupiter Station, Jon and Malcolm got married. It was a quiet affair in the smallest of the station's mess halls, conducted by one of Jon's friends from the NX program days and attended only by Trip, T'Pol and Phlox (who were both very eager to observe this human ritual) and Hoshi (who had found out accidentally and couldn't be dissuaded from coming.)

Despite everything, Jon enjoyed it. When Malcolm smiled into his eyes and slipped the ring onto his finger, Jon felt like he'd died and gone to heaven. Then he rephrased that, and felt like the luckiest man alive.

The luck didn't hold. They had a fantastic wedding night. Malcolm hadn't toned that down since they'd learned about Jon's problems, and Jon was grateful for it. Most of the time, he didn't feel sick, and he knew he would have hated to be treated like a piece of china, especially by Malcolm. Especially in bed.

Afterwards, they lay together, looking out of the window at the stars. Jon wondered idly if he'd ever see them again, then kicked himself. He wasn't thinking like that, because he was going to be fine.

"Are you worried about the surgery?" Malcolm asked. Jon started a little. From the way he'd been panting, and the way he'd collapsed against Jon, burying his face in Jon's shoulder and breathing deeply, Jon had thought Malcolm was asleep.

"A little," Jon admitted.

"I'll be there. For six weeks."

"I know. That's what's keeping me sane."

The next afternoon, Jon briefed Captain Douglas. He seemed like a competent leader and a decent enough guy. He won Trip's heart when he said: "I'll be deferring to you in engineering matters, Commander. I've only ever worked with the warp three engine," and even T'Pol seemed impressed when he quoted Surak. Everyone was going to love Douglas. Jon didn't know whether that made him feel better or not.

He did know exactly how he felt when Forrest turned down Malcolm's request for compassionate leave.

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant. We need you on board."

"As Jonathan's legal spouse, Admiral, I am entitled to six weeks' leave…"

"If you had been married a minimum of 180 days, Lieutenant, that would be correct. As it is, you have only been married…eighteen hours?"

"Sir." Malcolm maintained his composure, but Jon could see his hands shaking. Malcolm had an incredible amount of pride and Jon knew exactly what it cost him to say: "Please. It is very important that I be with Jon at the moment."

"And it's very important that you be on that ship when she leaves the station. Douglas's going to need all the help he can get. I can't send him off with an ensign in charge of the armoury."

Malcolm stiffened. "In that case, Admiral, I would suggest you find a lieutenant who would be interested in taking over my post."

Forrest looked nonplussed. "Does that mean you wish to resign your commission, Lieutenant Reed?"

"Wait, Admiral." Jon couldn't hold it in any more. He took a step forward, until he was within visual range of the comm screen. "We need to talk about this. We'll call you back." Jon cut the comm and turned to Malcolm, who looked less than enthused.

"What the hell are you doing, Jon?"

"You can't quit." Taking a six-week leave was one thing, quitting was quite another.

"Watch me."

"Malcolm." Jon took Malcolm's hand in his. "This is your dream job." And if Jon took him away from it permanently, they would end up resenting each other. Jon knew that for a fact. He'd seen it in his own life.

His mother had been ill for a long time before she died. His father had been the dutiful husband, putting his work on hold to sit by her beside. Physically, he'd spent months nursing her, but mentally and emotionally, Jon knew, Henry had always been a million miles away, exploring the stars. When she finally succumbed. Henry waited twelve whole hours after her death before returning to work on the warp drive.

The annoyance faded from Malcolm's eyes and he squeezed Jon's hand. "There's more to life than a job."

Jon smiled, finally knowing exactly what he had to do. It would be hell going through this alone, but it would be worse to force Malcolm to go through it, as well. "But 'Enterprise' has been my life for years. You need to take care of her for me."

Malcolm rolled his eyes. "Jon…"

"I mean it. It's important." And suddenly, it was. "You're the only one I trust, Malcolm."

"And what about us?" Jon glanced down at their hands, complete, thanks to the Jupiter Station pawn shop, with matching wedding bands.

"I waited forty-five years for you, Malcolm. I can wait another two."

Even if they were the two most trying years of his life.

Phlox's brochures had been right. The surgery wasn't a simple procedure. It was, in fact, so complicated that Jon had to undergo three operations before the Starfleet doctors were satisfied. After seven weeks in the hospital, he was finally moved to an outpatient residence, where he lived for three months, sharing the multimedia room with lonely retired admirals who liked nothing more than to discuss their various ailments in graphic detail. It was one of these admirals who found Jon collapsed in the shower one morning, victim of a biomedical heart attack.

Jon's first thought, when he opened his eyes to the beeping of machines and the soft trill of classical music, was that he had died. His second thought was, boy, is Malcolm ever going to be pissed.

But he wasn't dead. He was merely back in the hospital, where he stayed for another month before being released back to the outpatient residence. The old admirals were very pleased to see him. He was the only one who didn't mind being dummy when they played bridge and the only one who didn't make up words and claim they were obscure technical terms to gain points at 'Scrabble.' And, apparently, Porthos had been pining for him.

Jon had been home-really home, in his own apartment-for only a few weeks when 'Enterprise' returned to Earth. There was, of course, a lavish celebration planned, beginning with a welcoming reception, continuing with days of press conferences and interviews, and culminating in a five-course gourmet banquet. Jon had managed to get his outpatient friends tickets to the reception and to question and answer sessions with Trip and Captain Douglas. They would have preferred to attend Hoshi's session, but that one was sold out.

Jon was nervous. He wiped his hands on his dress pants, glad that, this time at least, there was a non-worrying reason for his palms to be sweating. Well, less worrying than usual, anyway.

Although he and Malcolm had sent each other messages several times a week, and water polo discs and dog treats always seemed to appear at Jon's door in time for every holiday and special occasion, Jon hadn't seen his husband in person in two years. A lot could change in two years. Especially, Jon thought, if you spent those two years in an enclosed space with people like Trip, and Travis, and Hoshi, and even Captain Douglas.

"Jonathan." Admiral Forrest hadn't changed in two years, that was certain. He looked at Jon with that same expression, the one that said 'I feel bad, but not bad enough to do something about it', that he'd worn when he'd turned down Malcolm's request for leave. "You must be excited."

"My heart's racing." Jon turned away from him and towards the large windows.

A cheer went up when 'Enterprise' slid into her docking ports, and the crew began to emerge. T'Pol was the first. She seemed slightly taken aback by the reception, but continued with the utmost dignity, pausing to greet Soval and Admiral Forrest before moving on to Jon.

"Captain Archer." "Sub-commander T'Pol." As a special consideration, Jon had been allowed to stand on the red carpet with the Admiral and the Vulcans, instead of being forced to wait in the reception room with the riffraff and the media. "Good to see you again."

"And you, sir." She looked different, less stiff, than she had when he'd last seen her. "Lieutenant Commander Reed will be here shortly."

Malcolm had told Jon about his promotion, of course. It had come just as Jon was leaving the hospital for the second time, and he'd been thrilled. The only downside, as far as Jon could tell, was that he hadn't been the one to give it to Malcolm.

T'Pol was as good as her word. Hoshi came down and hugged him, then Trip joined her, slapping Jon on the back and pumping his hand. Jon was still trying to catch his breath when he turned around to see Malcolm standing on the carpet in front of him.

He'd put on a little weight and there was a new scar on his forehead, but it was definitely him. Suddenly paralyzed, Jon stood, blinking like he'd never seen the man before. It was Malcolm who made the first move, taking a half-step forward and laying a hand on Jon's shoulder, seemingly unaware of the people around them.

"Jon." And, in that one syllable, Jon knew that nothing had changed. His two years of hell were over. They'd made the right decision, and now they were free to spend the rest of their lives together, without Malcolm resenting Jon for taking him away from 'Enterprise' and without Jon resenting Malcolm's resentment. They were free to be just like any other married couple and, as such, Jon decided to take advantage of his marital privileges.

Well, they had a lot of catching up to do.

Malcolm didn't protest as Jon swept him into his arms and into a lengthy, passionate, publicly inappropriate kiss. Instead, Malcolm pressed against him, smiling when Jon finally relaxed his grip long enough to look his husband in the eye. And to notice that the retired admirals behind the windows were whistling and hooting.

"How's your heart, love?"

Jon grinned and, with an acknowledging wave to his audience, leaned in for another kiss. "Much better, now."