Disclaimer: The toys are Paramount's...I'm just taking them out to play with for a little. No infringement intended, no money made.

Spoilers: Similitude, Cogenitor, Breaking the Ice

It was late evening on Enterprise, and the ship's rhythms had slowed as usual for this time of day. The low thrum of the engines at impulse was the only sound, as warp engines were offline for repairs.

Trip sat at his terminal in his quarters, reviewing two weeks' worth of backed-up engineering status reports. He had his feet up on the desk, and was comfortably attired in Starfleet-issue sweatpants and his favorite T-shirt; some thoughtful soul had done his laundry for him while he'd been away. A half-eaten plate of chicken tetrazzini with potatoes au gratin sat in his lap, a fork twirled between his fingers, and a big mug of black Java quietly flouted Phlox's orders against caffeine within easy reach of his right hand.

Trip put another forkful of his dinner into his mouth. Cheesy starchy goodness, he thought. Guaranteed to fix whatever ails you, never fails. Chef had made it just for him. Thank goodness someone on board realized he actually liked other food than catfish and pecan pie. Well, Jon knew, of course, but Chef had a way with comfort food...and somehow, he'd known just what Trip needed.

He turned back to the report he was reading. Sheesh, he thought, a guy's gone for two weeks and all of this happens...it's gonna take me another few days just to get up to speed on what's been going on.

He rubbed the back of his head absentmindedly. Phlox had released him two days ago, and insisted that he stay completely off duty for at least another week while he rested and underwent more tests. No "light duty", no sitting in his office and ordering his staff around, nothing. Just rest.

Hess had stopped by Sickbay to bring Trip some clothes when he was released. She told her boss that the Captain had assembled all of the Engineering staff and personally told them that if Commander Tucker did so much as poke his head in the door, they were to comm him immediately and do whatever it took to keep Trip out of Engineering. Including calling Security, if necessary.

By now, everybody would have heard about that. Great, he thought. The whole ship was conspiring against him to keep him from doing any work.

Not that they needed to.

Normally, no force short of the cocktail of sedatives the crew called "Phlox's good stuff" could have kept him away from reading his reports when confined to quarters. But he found it hard to concentrate with this annoying tickle in the back of his head that kept coming and going. He tried to ignore it, but it kept coming back. Like it wanted something.

Yep, that one. Again. Speak of the devil...

Up late. Again.

Yeah. Got a lot to catch up on.

Sorry I can't be more help. I didn't have much time down there. Missed a lot of what was going on.

It's not like I was there either.

True. But that's not your fault.

Well, it is, actually.

You didn't know...

Still...

(Trip sighed. He put his plate back on this desk, downed a slug of coffee, and closed his eyes.)

We need to talk.

Yeah, sure looks like it.

Days before, he had stood, dazed and numb, at the funeral of a person who he'd never met, but who he knew well. Better than he
would have wanted to, probably.

Or did he? That was his face, his uniform, his flesh in that torpedo casing, but not him...not him, as far from being him as he could imagine. Because he was here, alive, standing, mind wandering, and that person was dead and gray and cold, about to be shot into space like some sack of useless refuse.

Trip stopped his musings, startled by the thought. Whoa, where did that come from?

It was true, though.

The last thing he remembered...was opening the access hatch on top of the main reactor to shut it down before it blew Enterprise to smithereens. So, when he woke up in Sickbay, the first thing he wanted to know was the status of the reactor. When the doctor wouldn't answer his questions, he knew something more had happened.

Phlox had gently explained to him that he'd been in an accident. He'd been hurt pretty bad. Trip asked him how long he'd been out. Two weeks. So long...what had happened that he was out for two weeks, but was now back? What would have taken that long to heal? What was going on...

Then, Trip had seen something in Phlox's eyes that he didn't like. Not at all.

"There's something else you should know," Phlox said, and then he told him. Just the basic facts. That was all he thought Trip could handle at the time, but he promised to answer all of his questions later once he was stronger.

Afterwards, Trip asked to see the body. Phlox brought him a chair, and he wrapped himself in his blanket and sat and looked for a long time.

He was surprised at how hard he'd had to fight Jon about the uniform. Phlox understood, but Jon had wanted the gray jumpsuit. That was what he had worn before, it seemed, and so that was what he should wear now. Trip had argued so violently with him that Phlox had bundled the Captain out of Sickbay, confined him to his biobed, and forbidden him any more visitors until further notice.

But here he was, and there was the uniform, as Trip had insisted upon. After all, he'd earned it. Phlox and Jon had told him enough about what had happened in the particle field for him to know that. Whatever he was, whoever he had been, he'd earned it. He deserved to wear it. It had been Trip's, now it was his. Literally. Trip's best everyday uniform. Nothing less would have been right.

He had served a purpose. Grown, used, done, and eventually would be forgotten by everyone. But not by him. He knew what was owed to…whoever this man was. He knew that he'd never forget looking his own mortality in the face, literally, and he'd always remember now, this moment when his fear of death fled, never to return.

After all, said his pained mind, if he'd already died, and almost died, what did he have to lose? No, it wasn't him, really, but...

The anger and fury and simmering, acidic bile of his first months in the Expanse had been replaced by a dullness. He felt spent. Even though he had been sleeping better before the accident, thanks to T'Pol's neuropressure, he'd still been running himself ragged, the nightmares coming every few days rather than every night. The effort of trying to appear normal to everyone else was almost as draining as the lack of sleep. In his exhaustion, he'd been able to turn a blind eye to that slow erosion of his spirit until he woke up after two weeks of coma, physically rested and as clear-headed as he'd been since they'd left Earth.

And he looked inside, and found that he was empty. The void gazed back at him, cold and steady. He had a few moments of irrational panic before he was medicated into a numbed emptiness.

That emptiness stared at the reality in the makeshift coffin, and felt as though he could change places with it without anyone being the wiser.

He pulled himself out of his reverie, and glanced at the faces around him. They all held similar expressions. Sadness? Anger? What had they felt for this man, and what would they have to say to the person for whom he had to die? What place had he occupied in their lives? His? Or his own? Would they miss him?

Trip looked up at the captain, and averted his eyes hurriedly. Archer was unreadable, but not because of any lack of emotion. The pain written on his face was clear to anyone, but only he knew its causes. It was a look that Trip had never seen before. He couldn't handle it, not now. He turned back to the coffin.

My face...but not mine. No scars, fewer lines. It's like I was one of those boys in the bubble from way back when. No signs of the passage of time, of life leaving its mark, of hardships and grief, of joy.

He stopped. It hurt too much to think about that. Later. And the back of his head was...killing him.

Woozy from painkillers and who-knows-what from Phlox, he thought that he saw the eyes open. They stared straight at him. Their blue met his blue, and locked together, and were as one. They saw through him, and he saw nothing in them. He squinted to look more closely.

Then they placed the lid on the coffin (gray, like that damn jumpsuit, everything was gray), and shot him out into space.

That was the first time he felt the tickle in the back of his head. And now, days later, it was time to get some things sorted out.