Gigi Sinclair

If I had to pick one thing—just one—I missed while we were away, it would be this. Lying in bed, preferably with someone else, watching rain run down the windows and listening to it bounce off the roof. This, I think as I look at the grey sky outside, is probably the closest I've ever been to paradise. Probably the closest I'll ever get. There's one person in the world who knows that, and it's not the one sharing my bed right now.

"Jon?"

"Still here." I smile as Malcolm rolls over and opens his eyes.

"What time is it?"

"No idea. I'm on vacation." The first one I've had in about ten years, unless you count that one weekend Trip and I spent in the Keys, back when the Keys was still on the map. I don't count it. When Trip's the most fashionably dressed person in the room, it's not a vacation, it's a foretaste of hell.

I try to put my arms around Malcolm, but he squirms out of my grasp and looks at the chronometer. "Quarter past three! We've got to get up."

"Why? Is there somewhere you're supposed to be?" We're meeting his parents for dinner at eight, but not even that requires five hours of preparation. Although Malcolm put in a good two and a half before our first dinner with them.

After three years of listening to Malcolm complain, I expected his parents to be so evil, they'd make the Klingons look like a pack of Girl Scouts. I was disappointed. Mary Reed is a little more reserved than, say, Trip's mother, and Malcolm's father isn't as demonstrative as mine was, but on the whole, they seem like good, decent people who are clearly very pleased to have Malcolm back on Earth again. They aren't the only ones.

"I suppose I can stay a little longer," Malcolm finally admits, with great reluctance.

"Oh, you suppose so?" I grin at him, and that earns me an attempted haughty stare. It would be haughtier if his eyes weren't still bleary from his nap. It's four months, almost to the day, since Malcolm first let me see him like that, and they've been four of the best—if not the absolute best—months of my life. "If you think you can make it worth my while."

"I'll give it a shot, Malcolm."

***

When they learned that T'Pol left her job with the Vulcan High Command to stay with 'Enterprise', a lot of people thought she'd chosen to stay with me. Which was fine. I didn't care what people thought, as long as I didn't have to head into the expanse alone. At best, I thought, T'Pol would help us cope with whatever we found there. At worst, if what happened to the other ships happened to us, she'd be someone to help me keep the crew as sane as possible for as long as possible.

And it was fortunate that the sanity of the crew wasn't a weight I had to bear alone, because I was the first one who snapped.

I didn't notice, of course. That's the good thing about going crazy. It's not journey you remember taking. I was sitting in my ready room one day, looking over yet another engineering report that said nothing had changed since we entered the expanse, when I realized Malcolm was trying to kill me. It was a revelation. For the last two years, he'd been preparing a mutiny, and there was no doubt in my mind that he was going to attempt it soon.

But I didn't know exactly when. I'd always enjoyed watching Malcolm work. Now I studied him, familiarizing myself with his routine, making note of his allies. He had the support of his armoury staff, that was obvious, but I was surprised to notice that my best pilot and my chief engineer were his main henchmen. Malcolm spent an inordinate amount of time with Mayweather and Trip, doing God knew what, but I had an idea. Clearly the mutiny was more widespread than I'd imagined. There was no time to lose. It had to be put down immediately.

Once I learned that Malcolm had allies in every department, I became much more cautious. I stopped eating in the dining room. Too many opportunities for poisoning, if the stewards were on his side, and I had no reason to believe they weren't. At first, I told Phlox I was having trouble with space sickness and had him make me up some easily digestible nutrient shakes. Then I came into sickbay and saw Phlox talking to Malcolm. They looked up when I arrived, and Malcolm left soon after. He said, "Good morning, sir," as he passed. No one in their right mind would have taken offence at that, but I wasn't in any kind of mind. At the time, it was enough to convince me that Phlox couldn't be trusted either.

So I stopped drinking the nutrient shakes, took half the uniforms out of my closet, and filled the space with enough ration packs to keep Porthos and I fed for a few weeks. However it ended up, I didn't count on the situation lasting longer than that.

This belief was confirmed when T'Pol came into my ready room for a regular briefing session.

"Is Reed with you?" I asked, as soon as the door opened. T'Pol hesitated.

"No, Captain."

"Then come in." I still didn't know where T'Pol stood. I doubted she would support a mutiny, but if Malcolm had promised to install her as captain… "Quickly."

"Sir." T'Pol blinked at me and put her PADD on my desk. "Are you…well?"

"Why?" I narrowed my eyes at her. "What have you heard?" If Malcolm was spreading the rumour that I wasn't in complete control, it might mean he was marshalling his forces to make their move.

"Regarding what?"

"You know. The mutiny."

She hesitated. "Sir, we have all been under a great deal of psychological strain recently, you more than anyone. Have you spoken to Dr. Phlox?"

"I can't." I shook my head, hunching myself protectively over my desk. "He's one of them."

"One of whom?"

"Reed's mutineers."

Looking back, it seems almost funny. I wish I could remember the expression on T'Pol's face. She restrained herself, of course. She carried on the briefing session like there was nothing wrong, and before she left, she again urged me to see Phlox.

That was what decided me. T'Pol was anything but stupid, and, whatever she said about Vulcans and lying, I knew she could be devious if she had to. If she was insisting I see Phlox, she must honestly believe that Phlox was innocent, which must mean she, too, was innocent. Unless, of course, it was part of an elaborate double bluff.

I went back to my quarters and enjoyed my ration pack steak, ignoring the door chime and the repeated comms from both Phlox and Trip.

It was that discussion with T'Pol which convinced me to act sooner rather than later. The best defence was a good offence. If Malcolm wanted to challenge me, then I'd make him challenge me, face to face, man to man. On my terms, on my territory. It was, I thought as I passed through hallways full of Malcolm's supporters, the only way I could hope to win.

I invited him for breakfast, alone. Before I did so, I went to T'Pol, who was currently in charge of the bridge, and told her:

"I'm seeing Lieutenant Reed in my dining room." I couldn't say more, the bridge was crawling with Malcolm's spies, but at the time, I thought she understood. I was right.

He kept tight control over the phase pistols. There was no way he would have let me take one out of the armoury, so I had to make do with a knife. Chef was one of Malcolm's men, naturally, but I was still the captain. I ordered him to hand over a meat cleaver. Of course, that meant that Malcolm would be expecting it, but I had no choice. It was that, or face my fate armed only with ration pack wrappers and an overly friendly beagle.

"Good morning, sir." He gave me an innocent look, all wide-eyed and blameless, but I knew better.

"Lieutenant." I indicated a chair. "Let's not beat around the bush." He looked surprised, and for a second, I wondered if he'd thought I was oblivious to what he'd been doing. But, no, Malcolm had always been a very good actor.

"All right, sir."

"I won't let you humiliate me. I know you have me outnumbered. I don't know how you did it, but it's been done. I don't want to go that way. I want to have this out, just you and me. I think you owe me that courtesy."

Malcolm looked stunned. His eyes got even bigger when I pulled out the cleaver.

"Captain."

"I'd rather do it with a phase pistol, but I didn't think you'd let me have one. Can I trust you to be a gentleman?"

I've been through this story dozens of times with the psychiatrists since I've been home, but I've only discussed it once with Malcolm. One night, we talked for hours, and it came up. I wasn't completely shocked to learn that Malcolm had been frightened. There had been, after all, a madman with a meat cleaver sitting on the other side of the table. What surprised me was what Malcolm said after that.

"I wasn't afraid for myself, Jon. I was worried about you." He looked at me with the big eyes and, even though it was nearly four in the morning and I'd had a few drinks, I fell in love all over again. For about the two-hundredth time since meeting him.

At the time, though, that was the last thing on my mind. Especially when he said:

"Captain, I think I should call Dr. Phlox."

"No. Just you and me. Man to man." I waved the knife a bit. To be honest, I hadn't really thought about how I was going to use it. I hadn't really thought at all since the moment that I'd had my mutinous-Malcolm epiphany.

"All right." Malcolm eyed me coolly, the security professional taking over. "Man to man. How shall we begin?"

"I…" I didn't know, but I couldn't let him know that. So I bluffed. "I'll fight you."

"For what?" He smiled, cajoling. "I don't want the ship, Captain. We're doing perfectly well under your command." He was lying, and he kept on doing it. "If I had a problem, I would certainly come to you. I've done it before. We can work together. Remember when I was trapped on the hull and you came and rescued me?" I looked down to realize he was advancing on me. I retreated. I didn't have any choice. "I want to work with you, Captain. I think we get along very well. Don't you?" He held out his hand. "Jon?"

I don't honestly know what would have happened if the dining room doors hadn't opened. But they did, and T'Pol came in with a small entourage of security. I lashed out, cutting Malcolm's arm. He flinched, but I barely noticed. T'Pol put a hand on my shoulder and the last thing I remember thinking was that I'd been wrong about her after all.

It was also the first thing that sprang to mind when I woke up in restraints. I thrashed around for awhile, telling Malcolm—although I couldn't see him—that he wouldn't get away with this and trying to kick Phlox when he came within range. Trip appeared at one point and tried to calm me down, but I made various remarks about Judas and Brutus and spat on him. That was when T'Pol showed up.

It wasn't a mind meld. T'Pol didn't have that ability. It was, however, the next best thing. Mind meld light, they explained to me later. Mutual masturbation rather than intercourse, Phlox said, smiling innocently. It meant that T'Pol's disease couldn't be passed on to me, but she could, theoretically, rifle around in my mind and find out why it had gone off the tracks. It didn't make me feel any better, but at least it helped me understand. And I had the satisfaction of seeing Trip nearly choke to death at Phlox's colourful imagery.

It had been their last resort, and they only deployed it when they thought I had nothing to lose. Phlox didn't like the idea, but T'Pol insisted this was my only chance to regain my sanity. Or at least to regain as much sanity as I'd had in the first place. The senior staff were the only people who knew about it. The crew weren't told, Starfleet brass didn't know, the Vulcans certainly had no idea. It was funny, in a deranged sort of way, to think that while everyone thought T'Pol and I were having sex, only a handful of people were aware we'd been far more intimate than that. The circle of people who understood the mind joining process was even smaller. It worked, but only T'Pol and I knew why.

I don't remember many details about the actual mind joining itself. What I do remember is how weird it felt to have someone inside my brain. It's not poetic, but there's no other way to describe it. It was odd, but at the same time, it felt natural for T'Pol to know my every thought, my every feeling, my every life experience, intimately, as if she'd lived it herself. It was only later, when I realized that, even if I spent the rest of my life with Malcolm, he would never know a fraction of what T'Pol did about me, that I began to feel uncomfortable with what we'd done. And I began to understand why the Vulcans were so touchy about it.

The day after we did it, I woke up with a fuzzy morning-after feeling, the kind you get when you can't quite remember how you spent the previous night, but you're pretty sure you didn't do much to enhance your esteem.

T'Pol was sitting beside my biobed, looking at a PADD.

"Ah, Captain. How do you feel?"

"Like I've been hit by a bus." I tried to rub my eyes, and found my hands attached to the bedframe. I still thank God that Phlox insisted on keeping me in sickbay. If I'd woken up tied to my own bed in T'Pol's presence, I probably would have succumbed to a heart attack right there, and all her efforts to save me would have been in vain.

As it was, I wasn't exactly pleased. "What the hell…"

"May I ask what you remember of the last few days?"

"Nothing." It wasn't quite true. I thought, and it began to trickle back. Worrying—knowing—that Malcolm was going to attempt mutiny. Hiding in my quarters eating ration packs. Calling him to my dining room and…

"Oh God. Malcolm."

"Lieutenant Reed's injuries were minor. He will be…" A quirk of the eyebrow. "Fine."

I sighed with relief. "Why…I mean…"

"I have created a theory that may explain your erratic behaviour. But we can wait until you are fully recovered to discuss it."

"I don't want to wait." If I was going to threaten my armoury officer with a meat cleaver, I thought, I may as well know why.

"You have been through a very traumatic…"

"T'Pol."

She knew what I meant. Naturally. "Very well, sir. It is my belief that whatever this expanse contains preys on emotion. As we are still relatively near to the edge, it can only detect the strongest of feelings. Which is why your reaction centred on Lieutenant Reed rather than another crewmember."

"But I don't hate Malcolm." I didn't think so, anyway. Sure, he was frustrating as hell, but we were learning to tolerate each other.

T'Pol raised an eyebrow. "I did not say that."

I tried to take this in. By the time I said: "I don't know what you mean," T'Pol was already continuing:

"Paranoia is often one of the first conditions that manifests itself in an unhealthy human mind. It is my belief that, had it not been treated, your illness would have progressed to the point where you would likely have taken your own life. And possibly the lives of others on board."

"How did you treat it?" And why wasn't Phlox the one explaining it to me?

T'Pol hesitated for a long moment, long enough for me to realize that the restraints were chafing my wrists.

"Can you take these off?"

"Dr. Phlox would prefer to conduct a neurological scan before you are released."

"I'm not going to hurt anyone."

"Nevertheless." T'Pol blinked, and, although her expression betrayed nothing, I knew she was embarrassed. How I knew, I couldn't explain, but she was embarrassed. I waited to hear why. "As you and I have discussed on several occasions, Captain," she finally continued, "Vulcans are not emotionless, we have simply devised techniques to control our emotions. I shared those techniques with you when we were joined." She said it like she'd installed a program on my computer.

"How did you know it would work?"

"It was a calculated guess."

I knew it was more than that. "But you said it happened because my emotions were so strong." For the moment, I decided not to think too much about what those emotions might be. "How did you know they wouldn't be too strong for your techniques?"

T'Pol looked at me. "Because, as we entered the expanse, I experienced a similar situation myself." I knew. Or remembered, might be a better word for it, although I don't know if you can be shocked by a memory, and I was definitely shocked by this one. One more reason Starfleet would never accept mind melding or mind joining or whatever it was. The semantics would keep the bureaucrats tied up for years.

"Hoshi."

T'Pol didn't blush, but that was probably thanks to that self-control of hers. "I was unable to give you the techniques without also transferring something of my own experience."

Why Hoshi? was the first question that came to mind, but I already knew—remembered—the answer. Because she was open-minded, and scientific, and working hard to moderate her own emotions. And because she didn't stereotype T'Pol the way the rest of us had. The way I had.

They didn't seem like an obvious couple, but love wasn't logical. And I wasn't, apparently, in any position to cast stones. All that time I'd spent trying to get close to him, making excuses to spend time with him, asking Trip how to approach him. All the time I spent worrying about him getting hurt, all the nights I'd lain awake when he was injured. I must have been blind not to see it before. I was in love with Malcolm. That was why I'd nearly killed him.

It was three days before Phlox was satisfied enough to let me out of sickbay, and even then it was a week before I could return to duty. T'Pol had spent a great deal of time with me, showing me how to meditate so I could hang onto the techniques she'd installed in me. Trip visited me often, as well, obviously forgiving me for the 'Judas' remarks and the spitting incident. Malcolm never came. And I couldn't blame him.

When I was released from sickbay, I went straight to my quarters, and found them empty. I hit the comm.

"Trip, where's my dog?"

"Malcolm's got him."

"What?"

"Said he wanted to take care of him." There was a pause. "Want me to go get him for you?"

That would be the sensible thing to do, and T'Pol had worked very hard over the last few days to try and make me more sensible. But Rome wasn't built in a day, and a Vulcan isn't made with one mind joining and three days of meditation practice. "No, that's all right, Trip. I'll go myself."

Malcolm was out of uniform, in a pair of grey sweatpants and a T-shirt that let me see the thin pink line on his forearm. He stood at attention when I came into his quarters.

"At ease, Lieutenant." I would have liked to call him by his first name, but I wasn't sure how he would react to that.

"Sir." He went over to Porthos, who was lying in his dog bed at the end of Malcolm's bunk. He looked quite at home. He didn't even get up to greet me.

"I'm sorry." I blurted, before I could say something stupider. Like, 'Let's not disturb him. I'll just move in instead.'

"It's fine, sir."

"No, it's not."

"You weren't yourself."

That was the problem. If I had been myself, instead of trapped in denial for the better part of two years, maybe this wouldn't have happened. "I…" I couldn't say it. I was too scared of what the answer might be. So instead, I said: "Thank you for taking care of Porthos."

"You're welcome, sir." I took a step closer as he bent to pick up my dog. But it was too close, and when he stood up again, our bodies were centimetres apart, and he was looking into my eyes.

I often accuse Trip of acting before he thinks, but I frequently do the same thing myself. Like at this moment. Operating purely on instinct, just as I had when I'd slashed his arm, I leaned forward and kissed Malcolm.

He kissed me back. And kept on kissing until Porthos got tired of being squashed between us and jumped out of his arms. The sound of him hitting the deck and trotting back to his bed jarred us both Malcolm and I back to reality.

Malcolm spoke first. "Sir, I…"

"Malcolm." I interrupted. I knew what he was going to say, and I didn't want to hear it. I wanted to hang on to my fantasies for at least a moment longer.

"Sir, I am…very fond of you." He looked up at me again, his cheeks flushed. That, I hadn't expected. "Very fond," he repeated, his hand darting out and grabbing mine quickly, as if he was afraid he was going to lose his nerve. For Malcolm, that was a very strange fear indeed. It made me wonder just how important this was to him.

"Malcolm." I didn't know what else to say. My vocabulary had narrowed to that single word.

"But…" The other shoe dropped so loudly, I feared for my hearing. And my sanity, again. "While we are in the expanse, it would be irresponsible for us to let our guard down for any reason."

"You're saying no?"

Malcolm shook his head, his eyes sad. I forgot that, until T'Pol had explained it to me, I hadn't even been aware of my attraction to Malcolm. I'd never had him, yet suddenly, I was terrified I was about to lose him.

"I'm saying not yet, Jon. Not until all this is over."

I didn't argue with him. It wouldn't have done me any good. Instead, I thanked him again for Porthos and went back to my quarters. T'Pol showed up an hour later with yet more reports for me to read.

I had to ask her. There was no one else who understood.

"T'Pol, how do you… I mean, what…"

"I meditate, Captain." She looked at me. "If you would like me to continue assisting you to do the same…

"OK." It wasn't like I had anything better to do. Something T'Pol knew only too well.

It became a regular routine of ours. By the time we left the expanse, nearly a year later, I was the most well-balanced captain outside the Vulcan High Command. Which was fortunate, because I'd led the crew into hell and back, and on top of that, I hadn't been laid in three years.

Before we left on our original mission, I spent a lot of time picturing 'Enterprise's' homecoming. It would be a big deal: ticker tape parades, gala banquets, maybe a national holiday. The crew would be hailed as worldwide heroes, and my father would finally get the recognition he deserved.

It didn't happen quite like that. We'd saved the future, but we couldn't fix the past. Starfleet, afraid that the ignorant masses would panic if they knew what we'd been up to, didn't advertise our return at all. We docked at Jupiter Station with no publicity, no fanfare. The only people there to greet us were the station mechanics and the gamma-shift commander.

T'Pol and I were the last people to leave the ship. Both Malcolm and Hoshi had gone long ago, with the rest of the crew, and we were alone on the bridge when T'Pol said:

"You have made considerable personal progress in the past few months, Captain. I believe the High Command will be…pleasantly surprised."

Eleven months ago, I would have wondered whether that was a compliment or an insult, but now I knew it was T'Pol's version of gushing praise. "It was all thanks to you. Think they'd take you back if you showed me off?" T'Pol raised an eyebrow, but it was a friendly eyebrow-raise. She didn't go in for the sarcastic eyebrow-raises much anymore.

"I am not Henry Higgins, Captain. And you are not Eliza Doolittle."

I laughed. Even though she'd made a show of explaining how illogical it was, I knew 'My Fair Lady' was her favourite of the movies I'd dragged her to see. Two days after the screening, I'd caught her humming 'On the Street Where You Live' on the bridge, although, naturally, she'd tried to blame it on the expanse.

We left the ship, and Admiral Forrest commed me as soon as I arrived in my temporary quarters.

"We'll expect you home within the next few days," Forrest said, after I'd told him all I could handle talking about for the moment. He already knew the highlights of the trip. We'd lost a lot of our crew, but we'd saved the Earth. Not that the Earth would ever know about it.

I lay back on the narrow station bunk. I'd lived up here for seven months, off and on, when they were building 'Enterprise', and I'd never noticed how uncomfortable the beds were. I guess there were other things on my mind at the time. I closed my eyes and was slipping into my old meditation routine when the door chimed.

"Come in." I opened my eyes and turned to the door, expecting T'Pol, or maybe Trip, although we'd been seeing less of each other lately. He hadn't been seeing much of anyone. I got the feeling his revenge wasn't as satisfying as he'd expected it to be.

"Sir." I sat up quickly, as the door slid open to reveal Malcolm.

"Lieutenant Commander." I'd never been one for battlefield promotions, but if anyone deserved one, it was Malcolm. Although he was scarcely in a position to enjoy it. The day I elevated his rank was the day after he'd lost half his department.

The expanse hadn't been a joyride for any of us, but it had been particularly difficult for Malcolm. T'Pol had been right. The enemy had attacked through us, through our emotions, and Malcolm couldn't defend against that. Malcolm was used to protecting people. I understood how hard it must have been for him to be forced to sit back and watch, helpless, as they fell apart.

For a long moment, Malcolm stood there, looking at me. His eyes, which for a long time had seemed to alternate between blue and grey, were always dark now, and stress lines marked his forehead. I felt for him, but not too much. T'Pol had helped me with that.

Finally, without saying anything, Malcolm sat on the bed and put his arms around me. I was too surprised to do anything but hug him back, and when he rested his head on my shoulder, I was glad I hadn't reacted differently.

"I think now's the moment, Jon." He said, after another lengthy pause.

I didn't need to ask him what he meant. "Do you want it to be?"

He decided to go for a nonverbal response. He reached up, and I felt his hand in my hair a moment before he pressed his lips against mine. They were as soft and warm as I'd remembered. In that moment, eleven months of Vulcan meditation therapy, eleven months of pain and suffering and constant fear, disappeared and I was just a normal guy who wanted a normal relationship with Malcolm. The man I loved.

"Jon…" When Malcolm pulled back, it wasn't for long.

"Perfect timing, Malcolm."

***

A lifetime of watching PBS murder mysteries and three years of listening to Malcolm's Dickensian descriptions left me believing his parents lived in some kind of forbidding Gothic mansion on the moors, complete with gargoyles and a mysterious locked attic. I was surprised to find that their home is actually a bungalow with a rose garden and a small terrace, about half the size of our place in San Francisco. Forget the mysterious attic. The Reeds don't even have a basement.

After our first night together on Jupiter Station, I worried that Malcolm was going to pull away from me again. He didn't. The next morning, he was still there, unselfconsciously hogging most of the bunk and all of the blankets. He was still there when we went back to Earth and, when he was still hanging around after a few weeks in a hotel room, we decided to buy a house together. What can I say. The carpool to our psychiatrists' appointments is far more convenient. And it's so much easier to get out of bed in the mornings when I know Malcolm's downstairs burning toast and catching up on all the latest weapons developments.

It was after one of those psychiatric sessions that Malcolm told me he wanted to go on vacation.

"Anywhere. Europe, Asia, Africa. Everywhere." It sounded good to me. He dreamed of deep space, but in reality, my father had been more of a Yosemite-and-the-Grand-Canyon-vacation type guy. I'd been where no man had gone before, but on Earth, I'd travelled very little.

"And," Malcolm continued, looking at me as if to gauge my reaction, "I want to start in England."

His parents, especially his mother, were pleased to see us. Mary spent the last two days showing us around, shuttling us in between tourist spots and the homes of various elderly relatives, all of whom asked Malcolm how his little trip went and most of whom called me 'Jim' and insisted I drink coffee "because you're American." His father, we haven't seen much of. He always seems to be at work, although Malcolm assures me he's going to be there for dinner tonight.

It's still raining when we finally leave the hotel and head for their house. Before we arrived in England, Malcolm told me Mary offered to put us up in their spare bedroom.

"I told her you snore," was Malcolm's explanation for why he'd declined.

"I don't anymore." It's one of the many things the Vulcan meditation cured. I'm thinking of opening a practice to teach it to others, if Starfleet ends up putting us all out to pasture.

"I know. But you do make a lot of…other noises in bed." His smirk left no doubt as to what he meant. "And you're not making them three feet away from my parents' bedroom." I don't know. They aren't my parents, of course, but I think it might have been fun to see the Admiral's reaction to a little nocturnal entertainment. And Mary Reed's cooking is far better than the hotel's. I could happily wake up to her bangers and mash every morning for the rest of my life. Which, coincidentally, is also exactly what I think of her son's banger, even if Malcolm is a lousy cook.

Mary has prepared roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and boiled vegetables for us tonight. I'm glad that Malcolm and I were too busy for lunch. We sit in their dining room overlooking the rose garden, Malcolm and I on one side of the table, Malcolm's parents on the other. For a very long while, the only sounds are the ticking of the clock and the scraping of cutlery on plates.

"Nice day?" Mary finally asks.

"Yes, thanks." I answer for Malcolm. He has a mouthful of Yorkshire pudding.

"You off tomorrow, then?" She smiles politely. "Yes, we're going to France." Paris, because I told Malcolm I've never seen the Eiffel Tower. Well, outside of a postcard Trip sent me years ago from his aunt's place in Paris, Texas. Complete with a suggestive message about the large erections I was more familiar with.

"That will be nice. Stuart and I went to Paris for our honeymoon, didn't we, Stuart?"

"Mm." The Admiral grunts, and Mary gets up to bring in some more boiled carrots.

After dessert (a three-layered trifle, something else I could get used to) Mary stands up again and looks at Malcolm.

"Would you help me load the dishwasher, please, Malcolm?"

Malcolm looks unsure. He stands up cautiously, as if he expects his mother has something up her sleeve. Beyond a desire for one of the new quick-load dishwashers. "All right," he finally agrees, after he's weighed his options. He takes my plate and, glancing over his shoulder, follows his mother into the kitchen.

There's a long pause. Before I can think of something to say to the Admiral (apart from, "By the way, your son's a really great lay,") Stuart Reed stands and goes to the sideboard.

"Drink, Captain?" It sounds more like an order than a question. I obey.

"Yes, please." He takes a bottle of scotch from the cabinet and fills two glasses. He sits back down, putting one in front of me.

I take a sip, and I'm not too surprised to find it's a very good brand.

"Nice," I say, kind of lamely. I'm not an expert. I can't talk about its bouquet or it's woodiness or whatever.

"Glenfiddich," the Admiral replies, and I realize this is probably the longest conversation he's ever had with a partner of Malcolm's. I'm not even sure he met any of Malcolm's exes. I doubt it somehow.

Stuart Reed takes another long drink, like he's steeling himself for something, then sets the glass down and says: "You're probably aware that we…that most of Malcolm's news comes to us through his sister."

"Yes." For years, Malcolm didn't speak to his parents. I learned that a long time ago, back when the most serious issue on my mind had been what kind of birthday cake he wanted. It's been a year since I've able to worry about that kind of detail, but his birthday is coming up again very soon. Maybe I'll be able to have those kind of pleasant worries again.

"Madeline told us…" He breaks off and takes another swig from his glass. "How fond he is of you." The exact words Malcolm used the first time we talked about it. Looking at Stuart, rigidly uncomfortable and starting to blush, I wonder if the two of them might have more in common than either wants to admit. "At first, I was appalled. I've been in the navy my entire life. I've seen my share of captains who feel it's their right to take advantage of their crew. And Malcolm's always been…" Another swig. "Sensitive."

I rush to correct that idea. "Sir, I would never…"

"Then," the Admiral cuts me off. "She relayed some stories he told her. About an incident with some kind of electronic mine, and something with a lost piece of equipment. On both occasions, she said you risked your life to save his. It's clear to Mary and I that you care very much for our son."

I decide not to mention how Malcolm and I first got together. Or where Malcolm got that scar on his arm. "More than anything, sir."

"Yes." He shifts uncomfortably and clears his throat, but he's not finished. "This concerned me. Apart from the inappropriate disparity in rank, I am aware there is a significant age difference."

I take a deep breath and, my emotions completely under control once more, I admit: "I'm fourteen years older than Malcolm." Actually, thirteen years, nine months, and sixteen days, not that I ever counted.

"Enough of a difference for me to wonder if perhaps Malcolm sees you as a father figure. As a…" The blush deepens and I notice how much Malcolm looks like his father. But Stuart's in control of his emotions too, and he continues, with military briskness: "Replacement for me. You are no doubt aware that our relationship has never been ideal. I was very disappointed when Malcolm chose Starfleet over the navy."

I'm not sure what to say to that, so I stick with the easy answer. "Malcolm is a very successful Starfleet officer. You should be proud of him." I try not to sound censorious, but it comes out a little petulant anyway. Well, so what. It's the truth.

"I am." Stuart says and, for a moment, a brief flash of something, maybe real feeling, appears in his eyes. It disappears just as quickly, but it's enough to prompt me to say:

"And Malcolm doesn't need a father figure. He has a father. He'll never replace you." Much as he might want to.

Another long silence. I never thought I'd be offering reassurance to Malcolm's father. I take another drink and wonder if Malcolm will be back anytime soon. Just as I'm thinking about going to offer my assistance in the kitchen, Stuart speaks up, staring at a point over my left shoulder.

"I don't know how you people deal with these things, but if you and Malcolm want to…do anything, give us the details. I know Mary will want to be there." For a crazy moment, I think he's talking about sex. It's only when he continues, blushing bright crimson and transferring his gaze to the floor: "And I will naturally try to attend any ceremony you see fit," that I realize he's talking about a wedding. And that he's giving Malcolm and I his permission to get married.

It's still raining, but Malcolm and I decide to walk back to the hotel, which is only about three kilometres away. Mary gives us an umbrella and warns:

"Be careful, dear. There are all sorts of people out there."

Malcolm blinks. "I think we can take care of ourselves, Mother." He hugs her, then hesitates before extending a hand to his father. I don't think I've ever been prouder of him. And that's saying a lot.

The Admiral shakes Malcolm's hand. Following his son's example, he puts out his hand to me, and my pride only increases. It's nothing compared to the feeling I get when we round the corner on their street and Malcolm takes my hand in his.

I position the umbrella so we can both stay as dry as possible.

"Thank you," Malcolm says, and I can tell he's not just talking about the umbrella.

"They're not bad people, Malcolm."

He looks up at me. "Is that an offer to have them move in with us?" I laugh. "I wouldn't go that far. Although we could put an in-law suite over the garage…"

Malcolm nudges my arm and then, serious again, asks: "What did my father say to you?"

That's something I've been thinking about. When Malcolm and his mother came back in, we moved to the living room, where we sat and drank tea for the rest of the evening. The Admiral didn't exactly jump into the conversational fray, but he'd made occasional comments. Although nothing like what he'd said when we were alone.

"I think I'm supposed to ask you something." I swallow hard and remember T'Pol's words of wisdom. Control. Life is about maintaining control.

"What?" Malcolm stops. We're halfway across a pedestrian bridge. I glance over the edge to see the streetlights reflected in the water and the raindrops bouncing off the stream.

I take a deep breath and decide to go for it. So we've only, technically, been together for four months. I've loved him for three years, even if I didn't always know it. I do know better than to disobey an order, even a veiled one, from an admiral. Especially an admiral like Stuart Reed.

"Will you marry me?"

Malcolm laughs. Not quite the reaction I'd been hoping for. "Bloody hell." It only gets worse.

I stiffen. "Malcolm, I…"

He stops me with a hand on my arm, the other hand dipping into his jacket pocket. "My mother wants me to give this to you. Actually, she wanted me to wait until Paris, but I won't tell her if you don't." He pushes something into my hand, and I look down to see a man's gold wedding band. "It was her father's," Malcolm continues. "You're lucky Maddy's already claimed it, or you'd have ended up with my grandmother's engagement ring, too." He's smiling, but I can tell he's perfectly serious.

Well, so am I. I pass the umbrella to Malcolm. It's a little small, but I manage to slide the ring onto my left hand. "Your parents are quite a team." And, for the first time, I see how they managed to produce someone as incredible as Malcolm.

"I wouldn't want to disappoint them. Again." Malcolm sounds a little wistful. There's only one possible response to that. I kiss him.

He tries to keep the umbrella over us both, but soon abandons that idea. Instead, we stand getting soaked, making out in the rain like a couple of teenagers, until a passing police transport flashes its lights in our general direction and Malcolm says:

"Let's get out of here." I have to agree. T'Pol takes great pride in the progress I've made towards honorary Vulcanhood: it would kill her if Malcolm and I were arrested for public indecency. And it probably wouldn't do us much good, either.

***

When we get back from our honeymoon, we start planning our wedding. The first person I call is Trip. I expect him to be surprised but, as usual, he manages to steal my thunder.

"I'm leaving Starfleet," is the first thing he tells me, before I can even get a word out.

"What?"

"I'm tired of it, Jon." He smiles. "I've set up a charity. The Elizabeth Tucker Trust. We're gonna help underprivileged kids go to university." Not quite what I expected from the man who had once said if it wasn't for himself, he'd have nothing to care about. "You know what the best part is?" He continues. "For the first time since Lizzie died, I feel like there's a reason for me to be alive." Definitely not the Trip I thought I knew. Before I can worry too much, though, he adds: "And you'd be amazed at the women you get when they hear you're the director of a kids' charity." He leers. "Hey, what was your news?"

"Oh. Malcolm and I are getting married." After that, it's almost anticlimactic, and Trip apparently agrees.

"About time. You gonna call T'Pol?" She's next on my list. "Cause I'd do it fast, if I were you. Her and Hoshi are headin' out to Japan pretty soon."

"Hoshi?"

Trip shrugs. "Yeah, T'Pol wants to do some kind of cultural comparison between the Vulcans and the Japanese. Hoshi's taggin' along to translate for her." Right. I can't help the grin that spreads across my face. Trip notices, but misinterprets it. "Jeez, Jon, I hope you can keep a lid on it when you and Mal come to my charity banquet."

"Charity banquet?"

"Yeah. It's two hundred bucks a plate, but we'll call it your wedding present. Just don't spend all night makin' those googly eyes at each other. Folks'll lose their lobster."

When Trip hangs up, I think about calling T'Pol, but then I decide to leave her alone. She'll let me know when she wants me to hear. She always has before. Instead, I head for the bedroom, where I find Malcolm reading on our bed, beneath the Vulcan tapestry T'Pol gave me last Christmas. I downloaded 'The Sound of Music' onto a vid-disc for her. The Nazi/Romulan comparisons kept her entertained for months.

It's raining again, not unusual for autumn in San Francisco. I sit on the bed, and he puts down his book.

"You're not going to believe what Trip's up to."

"Kids' charity as magnet for women?" Malcolm smiles. "Travis told me. He can't wait for the wedding, by the way. He asked if we're registered anywhere."

"Registered?"

"For wedding gifts." I can't think of any I would want. Well, maybe one.

"Malcolm." I lie down beside him, and he turns to me. "Have I ever told you I love the sound of rain on a roof?"