My Head Is On Loose But My Shoes Are Tight

Hoshi walked along the beach, shoes in hand, bare feet skirting the chilly surf, the oversized sweatshirt she had taken from the bedroom brushing along her thighs, hanging low and baggy.

They had drilled holes in her head. And placed mind-controlling parasites into her brain.

The wounds were still there, healing slowly. Fading; but she could still see them every time she looked in the mirror. She could see them, reflected in the quick glance of people, that curious and appalled stare before their eyes flicked away, repelled. She could see them, reflected in the concern and pity of her friends.

She had she seen them, reflected in the fear barely disguised in the eyes of her parents.

She had gone home with her parents, sick of the honors and speeches and fetes for the Enterprise crew. The only bright spot had been her promotion to Lieutenant, a quick and quiet ceremony, Jon pinning her rank pip on her uniform with pride though his face was still lined with the lingering anguish from their mission.

Her mother cried when she saw Hoshi and swept her into her arms. Her father had hugged her, an emotional note in his voice as he told her how happy he was that his little girl was home, safe and sound. It was an honest outpouring of love and warmth and she was glad they were there.

But then for the next week she suffered their questions about Enterprise's harrowing mission in the Expanse. They interrogated her thoroughly, persistently, their eyes darting to the lesions on her forehead, their bodies leaning forward, examining and weighing every word. It had been a relief to finally escape to her old bedroom each evening, away from their prying eyes and judging faces.

She tried to keep her temper; she knew that they were worried about her. But they wouldn't relent. They smothered her, picking and prodding, telling her to talk to them, asking how she felt, was she all right, trying to convince her to leave Starfleet and take one of the many professorial positions offered to her.

Trying to take control of her life.

Her temper erupted one evening. Her parents were working together against her, going through the offers, deciding that a nice safe teaching position at the university in the city would be perfect for her. Close to home—she could live with them again. They urged her to accept, their eyes continually drawn to her forehead.

Her father talked about converting a spare room into an office for her. She of course would live in her old childhood bedroom. They would take care of her.

She snapped at them, stating that she was capable of taking care of herself, she was shipping out with Enterprise, and didn't want to discuss it any further. She stormed out of the room, feeling their troubled eyes boring into the back of her head.

Alone in her bathroom, she stared at her reflection. She hadn't intended to break the mirror, causing her parents to burst into her room, their voices a babble of accusations and questions. She had just wanted to stop seeing the marks on her forehead, the signs reminding her of what other people saw.

But she couldn't stop the reflection of fear and distress in her parents' eyes.

The next night her mother had oh so innocently and oh so casually invited a family 'friend' to join them.

Dinner consisted of udon and rice, and green tea ice cream. Simple comfort foods from her childhood, her favorites made especially for her. Although dinner also consisted of forced and oft-times strained conversation, her parents radiating a worried awkwardness, treating her as if she was a fragile china doll.

And then her parents told Hoshi that they were afraid for her—that she might hurt herself, or someone else. The family 'friend' then started asking pointed and personal questions, questions that were reminiscent of the Starfleet psych evaluation they had all gone through after debriefing.

When she refused to answer his leading and suggestive questions, the 'friend'—in truth, a doctor—turned to her parents and recommended psychological treatment. Preferably at a residential center. Her shocked disbelief turned to anger. And humiliation.

At that moment it occurred to her that the fear she had seen in her parents' eyes wasn't because of her ordeal, the injuries she had sustained, a parent's pervasive concern for their child's health and well-being. It was a fear of her. The fear of the unknown, the fear that she had been changed by the torture inflicted upon her. As if she was a monstrosity, no longer a part of them, alien and frightening, no longer the child they had raised and nurtured.

Bad enough that she herself felt afraid and different and angry. Sometimes she didn't even feel human anymore.

But she'd be damned if she let anyone in her head again. She packed and left that night, over her parents' objections that they only had her best interest at heart, and caught a red-eye to San Francisco, staying at the officers' guest quarters near Starfleet.

So here she was, still on a well-earned furlough, two more days before shipping out again, waiting for the finishing touches to be done to the ship. She wasn't certain when she'd be back.

It wasn't a difficult decision to make. Whoever had said you couldn't go home again was right.

She found herself eager to leave actually. She was comfortable on the ship: confident of her skills, familiar with the people, sure of herself as she had never been on Earth. Then again, she had never been tested so strenuously on Earth.

A month ago, at that first homecoming party, she'd met Trip's parents, a happy and emotional reunion with their son, though a cloud of bereavement hung over them. She saw Travis' mother and his brother, Paul—the whole crew of the Horizon in fact. A boisterous group, a human reminder of the celebration of life and what the success of their mission truly meant.

She recognized Malcolm's sister and saw the two of them huddled in a corner talking quietly, oblivious to the rest of the room. They left after a mere hour, Malcolm stiff and polite as usual in his goodbyes. Though he did give Hoshi a small smile and called her Lieutenant, accompanied by a wry salute.

She had heard that afterwards Trip had gone to Vulcan with T'Pol for some reason. Jon had gone back to Starfleet Headquarters, and Travis had stayed with his family on the Horizon.

She hadn't had heard about Malcolm, but that wasn't a surprise.

So for the last three weeks she had done nothing, really. She had seen Phlox two days ago and he assured her that she was in perfect health, and that within a week or so there would be no physical scars left from her suffering at the hands of the Xindi.

There was no mention of the emotional scars still with her.

She read, she went to the museums and theaters, she puttered around the city. She'd met a nice man or three and accepted their invitations to dinner.

Last night she even accepted the invitation to bed from one particularly gracious and charming man.

Which is why Hoshi Sato was walking along the crisp San Francisco shoreline right before dawn, her high heeled dress shoes in hand and wearing the sweatshirt she had borrowed from his home hanging shapelessly around her petite frame.

***

Malcolm washed himself off, wincing as he hit a raw patch on his foreskin. It'd been getting quite a workout lately.

He dried off and slipped on his jeans, his underwear lost in a tangle of bedclothes. He fastened only the bottom button, leaving the rest undone. Too much of a bother, and besides his coordination wasn't the best right now. He thought about looking for his shirt, but vaguely recalled it was mostly likely under the bed and he didn't want to be stumbling around in the dark of the unfamiliar bedroom to find it right now.

He had returned to San Francisco only last week and three days ago he'd run into Trip at Starfleet Headquarters. Trip had mumbled something about going to Vulcan with T'Pol to a wedding that hadn't turned out quite as planned and then suggested going out and getting blind drunk.

Malcolm agreed instantly. And they hadn't been completely sober since.

It had been a blur of drinking and picking up women, fucking and drinking and waking up in strange rooms, one last mad fling before returning to the sterile confines of duty. And there were plenty of women who wanted to sleep with the Starfleet 'heroes'. So they used that to their advantage. No harm, no foul, and everyone got what they wanted. The using was mutual.

It had been a relief to leave everything behind.

Malcolm could hear Trip snoring quietly in the next room. He stuck his head into the other bedroom to see if his shirt was visible, but there were only the two women sleeping on the bed. Jamie—or was it Jenny?—had joined him and Cynthia after Trip had passed out after making passionate love to her. Not that Malcolm minded the additional company. He was skilled at multi-tasking.

He made his way to the living room and sank down upon the couch. Cynthia's St. Bernard didn't stir from its position on the floor and for a moment Malcolm envied the dog's carefree life.

He shook himself and reached for the bottle of vodka. He refused to brood; he was through with doing that. He uncapped the bottle and swallowed until his mood lifted.

***

When Hoshi cooled down and looked at her parents' actions rationally she supposed she would have been better off talking to someone. But she had discarded that option long ago; it wasn't really in her character. She was used to working things out for herself, a solitary pursuit, but one that she had relied on most of her life.

Besides, no one could really understand what she had endured, not even her crewmates.

Sometimes she felt as if she was looking at the world through a stranger's eyes, a detachment from the lively beings blithely going on about their business, unknowing, unconcerned. She'd go to the observation decks of the tallest buildings in the city and look down, watching the people. They scurried from place to place, insect-like in the ebb and flow of their tiny movements.

She didn't like insects much.

It was astounding how ignorant they were of just how close they had come to annihilation. And how close she had come to being responsible for their destruction.

No wonder her parents looked at her with fear in their eyes. The more time she spent among people, the more she felt separate from them. Sometimes she wondered if Phlox had truly removed the parasites—she felt so different.

So Hoshi walked along the beach and thought; she'd been doing a lot of thinking the past month. When she wasn't just reacting with either an anger or impulsiveness that wasn't quite her usual style.

Then again, she had changed. Who wouldn't have, after going through what she had. What they all had.

The changes in Jon had been the most obvious. She thought that the affable and genial man, the wide-eyed explorer whose enthusiasm occasionally overruled his common sense, the man who could make the most god-awful speeches yet leave no doubt of his sincerity and sense of hope, was gone. In his place was a man who had closed down—at times during their mission short tempered and snapping irritably at people, at other times cold and distant, almost frightening in the intensity he had displayed. The man whose concern for his crew had always been first and foremost in his mind had lost many under his command and each loss had fueled his anger and hardened his soul.

Moments from their last ditch effort to destroy the Xindi weapon had come back to her in bits and pieces. But one of the two most powerful memories was of Jon, in her face and exhorting her to focus, to translate how to destroy the weapon, all compassion and empathy she was used to him showing gone. In its place was that desperate unyielding hardness she had found increasingly disturbing.

But they had succeeded and it was a miracle that Jon hadn't been killed as they had originally thought. Though the whole surreal recovery of the captain had been bizarre beyond words.

T'Pol's change had been the most startling. Her emotional displays, her odd behavior—her liaison with Trip. Hoshi shook her head. Weird did not begin to describe it.

Trip had finally seemed to be finding some sort of peace, though he had been shattered once again when they thought Jon was dead. She had hugged him and could almost feel his disbelief, his grief. He had been injured when they had retrieved Jon, he and Travis tortured for information. But he had been elated when he found out that Jon was alive.

She wondered why he had gone to Vulcan with T'Pol.

Travis hadn't changed much, still full of certitude, still animated. But there had been a new sobriety about him, a little of his inherent optimism dimming a bit. However, he'd been a rock, a friend she could turn to.

The changes in Malcolm had been less evident, but then again, he'd never been the most easy person to read. At the end of their mission there had been a darkness in his eyes that hadn't been there before. He had done his duty, had followed orders, had been a steady and calming influence on the bridge when so many of the other senior officers had acted erratically. He had offered stability in a constantly shifting situation—except for that fight with Hayes.

Hoshi snidely thought that they should have just whipped their dicks out and measured them, then grimaced. Hayes was dead. Because of her.

She uttered a curse in Andorian and forced her thoughts away from that subject. She continued to walk along the beach, watching her feet make imprints in the wet sand. And when she looked up to gaze along the shoreline, she saw a body lying on the sand ahead of her.

***

Malcolm pushed himself off the couch, a small smile on his face. It was warm in the apartment and he wanted to cool off before heading back to bed. He made his careful way to the balcony. He took the bottle with him; at one in the morning it was an undemanding companion, and it made him happy. His smile grew at the thought. Happy was good and maybe he'd wake Cynthia up and make her happy too. Perhaps Jamie-Jenny would join them. Happiness should be shared. He slid the door open and walked out.

The fresh air hit him like a sledgehammer to the head. He staggered over to the low railing and hung over it, and promptly threw up.

Cynthia's St. Bernard woke and came out to see what all the ruckus was about. He jumped up, a friendly greeting, and knocked Malcolm right over the edge.

***

When Malcolm could breathe again he looked up. From two stories above Cynthia's dog looked down at him. Malcolm could swear it had a puzzled expression on its doleful face.

A sand dune had broken his fall. Lucky me, he thought fuzzily. He rolled in his attempt to rise and the side of his head landed in the puddle of vomit. He swore and lurched to his feet, trying to figure out a way to get back up. A futile endeavor—it was too far up and there were no handholds for climbing.

He felt a mild twinge of disappointment. Everything he wanted was up there—the rest of his clothes, identification, credits. Not to mention a nice soft bed and two lovely ladies.

Oh, and his best friend. Who would most likely be screwing those two lovely ladies in the morning when he woke, Malcolm's absence no doubt going unnoticed until later. His more petty and competitive nature got the best of him as he smirked. At least he'd gotten there first for a change.

His disappointment faded when he spied the bottle, unbroken and still tightly capped. A friend in any port, he thought as he used its contents to rinse his mouth. He spat it out and then rewarded himself with small shot to fortify himself against the cool night air. He stumbled down to the ocean, intent on washing the puke out of his hair.

***

Three years ago Hoshi would have screamed in terror. A year ago, she would have cringed, turning away but remaining while letting others take care of the situation.

Hoshi approached the motionless body, heart pounding yet outwardly calm. She'd seen enough death to maintain a professional control.

Her heart did skip a beat when she recognized the form. She knelt down next to Malcolm and touched his cold skin, feeling for a pulse.

When she found one, she restrained the urge to kick him.

***

She could smell the alcohol on his breath, along with a whisper of perfume and soap. She sat back on her heels and studied him. His hair was damp, sticking up on one side. In the dawning light she was surprised to see a rich tan covering his usually pasty skin.

He was thinner than she remembered from that one time in decon with him. Stomach flatter, arms and chest more defined. She guessed all that sparring with the MACOs had paid off, though he'd never have the well-built physique that Travis or Trip had, or Jon.

His jeans were almost unbuttoned completely and she noted the trail of dark hair from his navel down. Something caught her eye and she pushed aside one flap of his jeans. On his hip was a tattoo, looking quite fresh. Small and unassuming, rather like its owner. It was just the number 26 delicately etched in a bright red with a white flower next to it. She wondered about that and pulled the side of his jeans back up, refusing to satisfy her prurient curiosity. After all, he'd been nothing but a perfect gentleman when she had come to his quarters, topless and filthy. At the least he deserved the same respect he had shown her.

Even though he was a posturing, chauvinistic, patronizing asshole most of the time.

She studied his face, waspishly thinking that he had no right to look so serene. Even passed out cold he should look as tired and worn out as she felt. There should be visible signs of what they had all gone through.

It wasn't fair.

She looked at his hands, nails ragged and palms newly calloused, not the neat, always manicured ones she knew. She remembered his hand patting her knee, his awkward attempt at comforting her when Tarquin had first contacted her. When no one had believed her.

Although he had run a thorough security check, even though he seemed to have done it more so to ease her mind—humoring her, not really taking her seriously. She remembered when they had discovered that Tarquin wasn't a figment of her imagination; he had argued forcefully for her not to go down there alone. Patronizing again, as if she was some little hot house flower, too delicate to take care of herself.

But in retrospect she could have done with some back up.

She stared at his lips; she could see that smug little smirk which was always just out of sight, just waiting to make its sarcastic appearance. It seemed to linger there, a concealed token of his chauvinistic attitude.

Her second most clear memory while destroying the weapon, her scanner gone and the sequence not yet complete, was of him questioning her, barked out and doubting. "Are you sure?"

Bad enough that T'Pol always questioned her with that superior air. She'd never really gotten along with the Vulcan. Her condescending attitude had made Hoshi withdraw a little, not bothering to go out of her way to get to know the only other woman on the command crew. Hoshi had thought that their gender would have given them a bond, a sort of sisterhood, despite their different species.

But T'Pol wasn't the sisterly type. More like a stern and demanding taskmaster, never satisfied, never pleased by anyone's performance.

Well, except maybe Trip's, Hoshi thought caustically.

In fact, all her superior officers were chauvinistic in one way or another. Jon's attitude had always there; that was just who he was. He either took her skills for granted or snapped in frustration when he felt she wasn't fast enough with the answers he wanted, or questioned her accuracy. Then again, he second guessed everyone, half the time ignoring sound advice in his eagerness to act. She found it ironic that he was just as bad as the Vulcans at times with their condescending attitude about humans.

Trip's attitude was better camouflaged, that Southern charm disarming. Yet when she had been stuck in the transporter beam, he had blamed her. "Look what you've done…"

Of course, that had all been a hallucination—however she had no doubt that would have been his reaction. Her subconscious wouldn't have played that scenario out if she had felt differently.

She prodded Malcolm, letting her fingernails dig into his skin. He mumbled something extremely rude in flawless German. She laughed, surprised, a smile unwillingly spreading over her face.

Chauvinistic, yes, questioning her at times, it went without saying, but he did the same to all the command staff, even Jon. Malcolm's interpersonal skills had never been very good.

To be honest, Malcolm had rarely challenged her competence and been more openly accepting of her abilities than any of her superiors. In fact, he often looked to her for confirmation, or encouraged her. He really only questioned her when he was stressed out. Malcolm was a bit of a high strung diva at times.

She poked him again, harder. This time it was perfect French and she blushed. She believed that was the dirtiest suggestion she'd ever heard. No matter how intriguing it sounded. Kinky bastard.

Posturing asshole, yes. Paranoid, uptight, aloof, anal retentive, immature—she continued to list uncomplimentary adjectives as she looked around. A child's sand pail sat nearby.

She gave him one more chance and shook him, hard. She was rewarded with Russian so impeccable with its use of native colloquialisms she wanted to cry at its purity. Even though she couldn't possibly do as he instructed—the Muisk vole was extinct.

Her satisfaction was deep when he woke, spluttering and surging upright, wiping at the cold ocean water she had dumped over his head. She had filled the pail to the brim, dousing him while wearing a faintly sadistic grin.

***

His foul cursing was rendered in that immaculate Queen's English. He shook his head, flinging water onto her. She noticed a smear of lipstick at the nape of his neck as well as something that looked like a hickey on one shoulder blade. It irritated her.

"Look what the cat dragged in," she said as she sat down next to him, making herself comfortable. "You look like crap," she added, just to get a rise out of him.

He peered at her, palming water out of his eyes before smiling that infrequent wide grin. He flopped over on his side, planting his elbow firmly in the sand and propping his head up with his hand. "More like what the dog pushed out," he said cryptically, his smile turning into that insufferable smirk. "And I looked a hell of a lot better before someone gave me a soaking—what's your excuse?" A graceful wave of his hand encompassed her from the top of her unkempt hair to her sandy bare feet. "Late night?" he asked, indicating to her obviously borrowed sweatshirt, amused eyes taking in her dress shoes still clutched in one hand.

His cheerful sarcasm, the veiled innuendo, the unruffled acceptance of her presence here on this cold and deserted shorefront at the break of dawn—it all grated on her nerves.

"At least I'm not dead drunk and passed out half naked on some beach," she said scornfully.

He raised his eyebrows at her tone. "I had a slight…misadventure. And I'm not dead drunk. Just happy. There's a difference you know." He gave her that thousand megajoule grin again.

It antagonized her. "What right do you have to be happy?" she snapped out.

The bitterness in her voice, the sheer rage in her question, startled them both. Hoshi drew her knees up inside the sweatshirt, only her toes peeking out. She wrapped her arms around her legs and looked away as his smile vanished.

"What's wrong, Hoshi?" he asked.

"Nothing." She stared at the waves. "Everything."

She could feel him studying her and her hand unconsciously went to her forehead. "Stop staring at me. I know they're still there."

"I wasn't staring at your injuries. Do they still bother you?"

"It all still 'bothers' me," she said lifelessly.

He looked away and busied himself with drawing figures in the sand. She let the silence spin out, feeling colorless and empty once more.

He finally spoke. "That's normal, Hoshi. Have you talked to anyone? Did you go home? Stay with your family? Surely they would have been helpful…" He didn't look up from his sketching.

"Did you go home? Stay with your family?" she countered caustically, though her heart was no longer in it.

"Yeah." He said it so quietly she almost missed it. She looked at him.

"What happened?" she asked, her curiosity piqued. Travis had told her that Malcolm hadn't seen his parents in over a decade.

He shrugged one shoulder, fingers still tracing unimaginative geometric shapes in the sand. "The usual. Had a row with my father and I left."

"What did you fight about?"

"It's a long story. And not a very interesting one at that." He met her eyes. "If you want to talk, I'm listening."

She didn't know why—maybe it was his expression, so matter-of-fact and impassive, not the usual one of impotent pity or uneasy solicitousness that she was used to everyone showing her. Maybe because he said it so casually, giving her a choice, not prying, not leaning forward in anticipation as if waiting to hear an unsavory tale. Maybe it was because she knew he was a private person, like herself, and discreet—no matter how much she and Travis had tried, he never had told them what happened when T'Pol had been 'ill' and escaped from decon that time.

Or maybe it was because she was tired of living like an angry ghost in a grey world, feeling like a stranger behind her own eyes.

She didn't know why—but she began to talk.

***

He listened without interrupting, without looking at her. He continued to draw in the sand, simple repetitive patterns, nodding now and then to indicate that he was still paying attention.

She told him what the Xindi had done to her, how they had taken all her will and control away from her.

She spoke bitterly about the reactions she'd gotten from people, the intrusive questions, the lurid and almost gleeful interest while pressing for details of her ordeal. As if what she had gone through was a diverting horror film, or a story from one of those sensationalistic entertainment rags.

Once she began, she found she couldn't stop. She told him the flashes of memories from her imprisonment, her attempts to resist, the layer of encryption she had planted. She saw him smile at that.

She told him of her feelings of alienation from friends and family, of their concern and barely disguised fear and disgust.

And she told him that she no longer felt like who she used to be sometimes, that something vital had been taken from her. That she was afraid that she'd never regain it. Her soul, her essence, her spirit—whatever amorphous force that tied her to humanity seemed to be gone.

He cocked an eyebrow when she told him of her visit home, her parents' attitude, culminating in that debasing dinner. But he remained silent, letting her pour out all her vitriol, a month's worth of conflicting emotions which had raged inside of her.

He paused in his doodling only twice. The first time was when she told him that she had tried to fling herself over the railing to her death. His fingers dug into the sand and his fist clenched, the damp loam audibly grinding in his palm.

The second time was when she blamed herself for Major Hayes' death. Malcolm's head snapped up and he finally interrupted her.

"It wasn't your fault."

"Oh yeah, right, Malcolm. Everyone knows he wouldn't have been there if he hadn't tried to—"

He sat up and cut her off as if he knew what her self-condemning argument would be. Later she would think that of course he would know; he'd had the same type of argument with himself.

"Regardless of the crew member the Captain would have made a rescue attempt—something we both would have agreed upon for a change. And Hayes—" he looked away, staring at the waves. "It was a combination of elements. But Hayes made a mistake. And it cost him his life," he ended quietly.

She opened her mouth to speak and once again he interrupted her.

"I studied the recording of the bioscans—he moved from a relatively protected area into an unfamiliar corridor. A green recruit's blunder. I don't know why he did, though live Xindi Reptilians attacking you is enough to make anyone lose their head for a moment…" There was a subtle but visceral reaction between combat with humanoids and an actual close-up firefight with a nightmarish alien species. And Hayes had been uneasy around even dead Insectoids.

"But if—"

He swung his head around and glared at her. "There is no 'but', Hoshi. It's not your fault. It's not my fault nor Captain Archer's fault. There's no one to blame, except the bastard who shot him. It just happens and all the self recrimination in the world won't change anything. The Major didn't blame you. He didn't blame anyone…no one blames anyone."

They sat in silence for a while, Hoshi studying his profile as he reclined back on his elbows and stared at the ocean. It startled her when he began to speak quietly.

"My father was a troubleshooter in the Navy. He'd come in, investigate the set-up of the base, go out on duty tours with the ships and then tell everyone what to do—how to fix things, make things more efficient. He was quite good at his job. In fact, he's still quite good at telling people what he thinks they've done wrong." She saw that smirk make its appearance, but it was more of a sad, rueful one. "We moved around a lot, from base to base, country to country—"

"So that's why you're fluent in German, Russian, and French," Hoshi said with satisfaction, one curiosity resolved.

He frowned at her. "How'd you know that?"

She smiled, the first genuine one she had all week. "You talk in your…sleep."

He quirked a little half smile at her and she didn't think it looked as sarcastic as she remembered.

"Oh." He concentrated on the ocean once more. "Yeah, I know a couple languages. Worked at learning them, trying to fit in. It was hard to fit in, always the new kid, always the foreigner—the stranger. But no matter how well I learnt the language, people could tell. The way I looked, the way I acted, my mannerisms. Never enough time to blend in; just as I'd finally start to get things sorted out we'd be off again, stationed somewhere else. We just wandered like nomads through the world and you don't feel connected to anyone or anything after a while."

He looked at her. "Always the stranger. Even when you go back home. It's not the same—you're not the same. Your experiences leave their marks upon you and you're not the same and people know it. Then you chose a career that takes you into space and you're forever the stranger out there. Different. Once in a while you run into another species and suddenly understand something from their completely alien perspective and you're never the same after that. So you see things, you do things, and you never feel the same as you did before. You've changed even more and the people back home haven't." His gaze flittered away and she began to think that he knew exactly how she felt. It surprised her.

"After the row with my father I visited every one of the families of our crewmates who died. Not one of them blamed us. Not me, not the captain, and certainly not you. And if they, who have lost loved ones, don't blame us, then you and I can't blame ourselves."

Once again he surprised her. "You went to see all of them?" She couldn't picture their withdrawn armory officer making social calls. Even grim ones.

He shrugged, still staring out at the sea. "I thought someone should. The captain couldn't, as much as he wanted to—he's been stuck at HQ ever since we came back, though he gave me personal messages to give to each family. Trip…" he trailed off, his expression changing. "Trip had enough to contend with. And T'Pol probably wouldn't have been suitable," he added somewhat dryly.

"Why would you subject yourself to that?"

"I'm the armory officer—it's my job to keep the ship and crew safe. We lost 27 people—more than what conventional military wisdom says is the acceptable rate of casualties," he replied, a touch of heat entering his voice for the first time. He exhaled slowly, calming himself, and continued in a more subdued tone. "I felt as if I failed, and as if we had become complacent about our losses. Our crewmates deserved better. Someone should tell their families how they died, face to face, and not in a letter.

"So I did. I expected them to be angry; people taking their grief out on me. I would have accepted that. I thought it would have been a fitting punishment for my failure."

Hoshi added masochistic to her list of uncomplimentary adjectives.

He looked at her and held her gaze unflinchingly. "I was wrong. There was grief and tears. But not one of them blamed me, or the captain, or anybody else for that matter. Every one of them wished it wasn't their loved one who died, but they were nothing but kind to me." He paused, eyes drifting to the side in thought. "I think Liz Cutler's family was the most difficult. Liz always went out of her way to speak to me. I considered her a friend." He looked at her again. "I talked to her parents for hours, telling them everything I could remember about her. How she was coming along as Dr. Phlox's nurse. That time she put a whole jarful of Antarian sludge weevils in Travis' bed."

Hoshi chuckled, remembering. Liz had made a recording of Travis' reaction. Who knew their helmsman had such a high pitched scream?

Malcolm gave her a slight smile. "Her parent appreciated hearing about her…hijinks. I gather she was quite the prankster when she was younger. I gave them a padd with photos Trip had taken of our crewmates since our launch. I gave each family a padd. Trip helped me compile them before our return. They appreciated it."

His smile faded and he squirmed uncomfortably, hands restless. "And when I finished visiting the last one, I took my sister's offer to meet her in Venezuela. She's part of a reconstruction effort in one of the hardest hit areas there…" he trailed off, self-conscious, picking at a callous on the palm of his hand with his tattered fingernails. She wondered what those hands, so adept at destruction, had built instead.

"I wish no one had died, but I can't change anything," he said softly, head still bowed. "Agonizing over what I did or didn't do wasn't helping me, so I did what I could, in the here and now. Ernest Hemingway said 'Never think that war, no matter how necessary, nor how justified, is not a crime.' You're damned from the start and it's hard to hold onto your humanity in the face of that. There's nothing but death with innocent people on both sides caught in the middle."

He shifted, sitting up and facing her. "You were caught in the middle. Of course you're different, of course you're angry and you're afraid. You were hurt and tortured. You've changed. We've all changed. But you're still human, Hoshi, with all the flaws and burdens that go with it. You've got friends who were there and know what you've been through. So if you need to talk, there are plenty of people willing to listen."

He gave her a tentative smile, that shy one that she remembered from their first year out. He reached out and patted her knee, his gaze sliding away. "And I'm not much, but I'm always willing to lend an ear." He awkwardly patted her knee one last time and withdrew his hand, fidgeting a bit before looking out onto the sea again.

She watched the waves for a long time, sitting silently beside him. She could still feel her conflicted feelings, her anger was still there, but it had deflated a little. As if a valve had been turned on and a raging stream of emotion had been released—not all of it, but just enough to feel a bit of relief, a little more settled. If this had been a movie she had no doubt that a rainbow would burst from between the morning clouds as bluebirds appear, cute little sea creatures coming out of the surf to frolic around her while a chorus of uplifting music filled the air.

However, this wasn't a movie and a brief pep talk from a half loaded cynic wasn't going to make everything all better.

But, oddly, for the first time since her nightmare at the hands of the Xindi, she felt in control of her own life again.

The sun had risen and a slight breeze stirred. She saw Malcolm yawn.

"Am I boring you?" she asked, her tone not as hostile as it had been. Talking to him had helped. He had listened without offering advice or telling her what to do. Or worse, that her feelings and fears were wrong or foolish. Maybe he wasn't so bad after all.

He smirked at her. "Only if you start prattling on about your silly little fricatives and trill consonants."

Then again, maybe he was. Shithead. As if he couldn't expound on blast yields for hours.

"Nice tattoo, Mr. Rocket Scientist," she sniped, feeling justified. He started it.

"Huh?" He looked down and for the first time noticed that his jeans were almost completely unbuttoned. "Bugger," he said mildly. He rose and turned his back, fumbling at his fly.

"Twenty-six? We lost twenty-seven people." She felt a fresh ache of pain at the memory of their deaths, but it no longer held the aura of guilt as it had before. When she realized that, the relief was nearly overwhelming, perversely making her mood almost giddy. It felt good to be in control for a change. "I liked the flower though," she needled, teasing him, wondering if he'd blush. She'd never seen him blush, although Lord knew there were enough times he'd embarrassed himself in front of her.

He turned back around, fly buttoned and a leer on his face—that creepy one she'd seen him look at other woman with before. The one where you didn't know if he was thinking of tearing your dress off to ravish you or tearing your dress off so he could wear it himself. "See anything else you liked whilst you were down there?"

"Hardly." Conceited asshole. "Too drunk to count correctly?" she countered sweetly, fully enjoying herself.

The leer turned into that arrogant smirk again. "Even pissed I'm sure my maths skills are better than yours, old girl." And with that he walked away, across the sand and headed back toward the row of houses.

She scrambled to her feet to follow him. The game amused her and she wasn't about to let him get the last word in. She noticed that he had slowed down, waiting for her to catch up.

"So? What's the story behind it? Old boy." She mimicked his stuffy accent perfectly.

He shot her a sideways look and she fully expected him to ignore her. But once again he surprised her.

"The flower is for the twenty-seventh."

"Who?" she asked, wondering if there had been something more than a friendship with Liz Cutler.

"Hayes."

She stopped walking and after a few steps he did too. "Hayes?" she asked. Hmmm. On the other hand, maybe there had been something more with Hayes. Malcolm had always struck her as being a bit…ambiguous.

"It's edelweiss." He pronounced the name of the flower with a brisk Teutonic accent. "Mum's a keen gardener—she'd always go on about the meaning of the flowers she'd plant," he said with his habitual sarcastic tone.

"And?"

"Means daring and noble courage." He started walking again. She followed.

"Were you and Hayes…" she trailed off. His baffled look was so clueless that she merely shook her head. "Never mind."

She followed him in silence, waiting for him to elaborate. He didn't. She added exasperating to her list of adjectives. They eventually came to the row of houses and he stood there, head tilted to one side, scrutinizing them.

"What?"

He gave her a sheepish look. "I don't remember which one I was in last night." His stomach chose that moment to growl loudly. He looked at it, vexed.

Hoshi laughed and it felt good.

"You're such an asshole, Malcolm." She laughed even harder as his offended expression.

Then he grinned and agreed with her.

So she bought him breakfast. And lectured him on fricatives throughout their meal just to annoy him.