Gigi Sinclair

"This is inappropriate." Malcolm looked at the mess hall, which had been decorated with sprigs of one of Phlox's greener plants and a dusting of icing sugar that he supposed was meant to simulate snow. "We are in the middle of a war…"

"Which is exactly why we need this," Hoshi finished for him, placing a hand on Malcolm's arm. "Come on, Malcolm. It's Christmas. The Xindi will still be there in the morning."

"They're here now. If they were to attack…"

"Then we'd go to our battle stations. Just relax, OK?" She grinned suddenly, and Malcolm turned around to see one of the MACOs, a blond called Hemper or Stemper or something, in the doorway.

"Josh!" Hoshi waved, and the man came over.

"Place looks great, Hoshi," the MACO replied, and Malcolm wondered since when they'd been on such intimate terms.

Apparently, first names weren't the only intimacy Hoshi shared with the man. "Chef made gingerbread Klingons. Come on, I'll show you." She took his hand and dragged him off to the kitchen.

Shaking his head, Malcolm turned on his heel and went back to where he belonged, at his post.

He stayed there for several hours, even after his shift had technically finished. If he worked all night, he realized at around 2100, he might finally be able to get the weapons inventory updated. A small smile of satisfaction crossed his face at the thought, but it didn't last long. Moments later, his stomach contracted with a loud, voracious rumbling. He tried ignoring it, but less than fifteen minutes later, hunger overcame him and, against his will, Malcolm was forced to leave the armoury.

The mess hall was much more crowded than it had been earlier. Squeezing past Lieutenant Hess and Sergeant Mackenzie, who were chatting intensely near the door, Malcolm tried to make his way to the food dispenser.

It was hard going. Every few feet, he was stopped by someone. First, it was Hoshi, hugging him and saying, "You came!" while "Josh" looked on.

"I'm not staying," Malcolm warned her, but her attention had already been distracted by Travis Mayweather, making an entrance with a tinsel crown and a blinking red nose that looked like it was made out of one of Malcolm's emergency alert lights.

Malcolm's next interruption came in the form of Trip, who slapped him heartily on the back, said, "Hey, Malcolm! Glad you could make it!" then turned to T'Pol, who was standing awkwardly by his side. "I was just tellin' T'Pol about that great holiday tradition."

"Getting drunk and pretending to like unattractive gifts from distant relatives?" Malcolm suggested.

"No, candy canes!"

T'Pol raised an eyebrow. "As I have said previously, Commander, I find it irrational to waste energy sucking on something that will not provide sufficient nutrition to compensate for the calories expended consuming it."

Trip smiled widely. "That's what you say now, Sub-Commander, but wait till you try it. Am I right, Malcolm?"

"Absolutely, Trip. If I could just get by…" He left them debating the relative merits of protracted sucking versus repeated licks, and immediately ran into the captain.

Malcolm wasn't surprised to see Captain Archer there, although he was slightly disappointed. Lately, it had seemed like he was becoming more of the iron-fisted leader Malcolm expected him to be. Now, though, there didn't seem to be much iron about the captain at all. He had one arm around one of the lesser-ranking MACOs, a blond sniper called Rosenfeld. The other arm was holding onto Porthos, who was dressed festively in a red sweater and reindeer antlers.

"Malcolm! You know Jacob, right?"

"Of course." Malcolm looked at him coolly. He seemed to remember that the other MACOs called him "Snipe," and he was young, perhaps young enough to be Archer's son. "Enjoying yourself, sir?"

"It's Christmas, Malcolm," Archer replied, like that was an answer. "Get yourself some eggnog and fruitcake." He and Snipe disappeared into the crowd and finally, Malcolm had a clear path to the dispenser.

He was examining a chicken salad sandwich when he felt someone come up beside him. Steeling himself for some more holiday cheer, Malcolm half-turned and saw Major Hayes reaching for a ham roll.

"Major," Malcolm said, just to pre-empt the "Merry Christmas" he knew was coming.

Hayes looked surprised that Malcolm had even spoken to him. "Lieutenant." Hayes added a donut to his tray. Malcolm waited for it. "I was working on that proposal to merge our weapons accountability systems. It should be fairly easy to make the two programs compatible. No need to reinvent the wheel after all."

"Oh." Not quite what Malcolm was expecting, but much nicer to hear than, "Why isn't there any tinsel in your boxers?" "That's good." Very good.

He and Hayes had clashed at first, but Malcolm clashed with everyone at first. It hadn't taken long for Malcolm to realize that, while they might not be bosom pals, Hayes was a good man to have watching your backside. Watching your back, Malcolm corrected himself quickly, as Hayes continued:

"Yes. We could take a look at it now, if you aren't busy," as if they were alone in the mess hall.

"Don't you want to…" Malcolm glanced back at the festivities behind them.

Hayes frowned. "I'm sorry?"

"I thought Americans were into Christmas." The rest of them certainly seemed to be. Even T'Pol was taking a stab at it, holding a glass of eggnog in one hand and raising an eyebrow at Trip as she asked him to "Pull his cracker."

"I'm Canadian," Hayes replied. "Well, originally. And I don't care for Christmas at all." Hayes's expression didn't invite Malcolm to ask why, and Malcolm understood perfectly.

"In that case, let me get my tea, and we'll go right away."

As Malcolm waited for the tea, he was dimly aware of Phlox climbing on top of a chair and announcing: "It's time for games!"

Definitely the moment to make their getaway, Malcolm thought, remembering the debacles of "Charades" and, worse yet, "Trivial Pursuit" that had been characteristic of his childhood holidays. Growing up, it had never really felt like Christmas until his mother threatened to divorce his father for not knowing the capital of Ecuador, while his father raged that any half-witted moron could figure out "Horatio Nelson" from a bow-legged walk across the living room.

Malcolm was so caught up in these terrible, life-scarring memories, he didn't process all the details of Phlox's game, and so was rather surprised when what looked like a small blue octopus flew through the air and landed at his feet. The rest of the crew turned to look at him, cheering.

"Lieutenant Reed!" Phlox declared like a demented ringmaster, waving with one arm. "And Major Hayes!" Someone whistled. Malcolm glanced at Hayes, who was whiter than he had been the first time they'd gone hand-to-hand with the Xindi.

Malcolm blinked. "I'm sorry, I wasn't listening…"

"They want us to kiss," Hayes clarified, his expression blank. "It's Denobulan spin-the-bottle."

"Indeed, Lieutenant, although I do wish you had paid attention the first time. As I already explained, the person selected by the Waranian tentacle fish must kiss the person to their immediate right, or pay the forfeit."

"Oh, I see." A natural game for a polyamorous society, Malcolm supposed. It had certainly never been a feature of Reed family Christmases, although he was sure his parents would have managed to be ridiculously competitive about it if it had. "Unfortunately, Major Hayes and I aren't actually playing." Out of the corner of his eye, Malcolm saw Hayes sigh with relief, and Malcolm felt an inexplicable shimmer of satisfaction.

"If you are not playing," Phlox replied, reasonably, "Then why are you in the circle?"

"We're just getting something to eat." Malcolm held up his sandwich.

"Oh, come on, Malcolm," Trip cajoled. "The fish chose you."

"Yeah, Major! Go for it!" Mackenzie added, with a less than ladylike hoot.

Malcolm hadn't felt this uncomfortable since he was at school. Suppressing a flashback to his days of standing in front of the computerized board with no idea of how to solve the algebraic equation everyone else had already finished, he looked at his staring, catcalling crewmates.

And thought that anyone who doubted the veracity of "The Lord of the Flies," or even "Mad Max," had clearly never been at a party with these people.

"What's the forfeit?" Malcolm asked, out of prurient curiosity.

"You will need to remove your clothing and recite all two hundred and sixteen verses of the erotic Denobulan poem 'The Lady, Her Third Husband and the Stableboy.'"

"What kind of game is that?"

"It is played at all Denobulan family gatherings," Phlox replied, a little huffily.

Well, Malcolm sighed, at least it was less violent than "Trivial Pursuit." He glanced at Hayes, who cleared his throat and quoted: "'The ability to compromise is the mark of a civilized being.'"

"Buddha?" Malcolm asked, impressed.

Hayes looked at him. "Matthew Hayes Senior. Brigadier General." Good enough.

Quickly, before he could lose his nerve, Malcolm leaned forward and pecked Hayes on the cheek. That was the plan, anyway, but Hayes turned his head at the wrong moment, and they ended up brushing lips. It was nothing, it lasted barely a fraction of a second, but it was the closest contact Malcolm had had with anyone in over a year. It was also the closest he'd come to feeling anything even remotely sexual since that Vissian armoury officer had referred to his weapons as "quaint." That had been the end of her, cheese fetish or not.

But Hayes didn't think the weapons were quaint. He cared about them as much as Malcolm did. He was even working on a program that would let them know exactly where all of them were at all times. Everyone else on the crew would have called him paranoid for wanting a system like that. Hayes not only understood, he wanted it even more than Malcolm did.

"We should go and look at that program," Malcolm suggested, once the cheering had subsided and Phlox had collected the octopus to launch at someone else.

"Yes," Hayes-Matthew, Malcolm corrected himself-agreed. Matthew frowned a little, then added, "It might be easier if we went to my quarters. I already have it set up on my computer."

Malcolm nodded. "I don't like to eat in the armoury, anyway."

"No." Matthew smiled, and a flock of butterflies spawned in Malcolm's stomach. Which was completely ridiculous, Malcolm reminded himself, although that didn't get rid of them. If anything, they became more active when Matthew suggested: "I have a bottle of bourbon, if you wanted to make an evening of it."

"All right," Malcolm agreed. After all, he thought, it was Christmas. And the Xindi would still be there in the morning.