A/N: Hello again, and welcome to my latest story. It can be read either as a sequel to Aftermath, or as a stand alone tag in its own right. As several of my reviewers for Aftermath have already guessed, it's set after Similitude.

I found the parallels between Trip's actions in Cogenitor, and Jon's in Similitude, so strikingly similar. They were taken for the greater good, but at a terrible cost to their consciences. And as with Cogenitor, I'd imagine the consequences of Jon's decisions in Similitude would place a real strain on their friendship.

I need to say, too, that this story hasn't taken the direction that I had planned. While writing its third chapter, I found that a very close friend of mine had died, very suddenly, and completely unexpectedly. As you can imagine, it came as one hell of a shock. So the confrontation between Trip and Jon won't be quite the 'yell-fest' that I'd originally planned it to be. I think I'll need to save that for another story, and another time.

There'll still be plenty of angst, of course, for a story that's been especially emotional for me to write, and to complete. I hope you enjoy it.

The Cost Of Living

Chapter One - Suffer The Innocents

Blinking against the lights above him, Trip shifted on the bio-bed, and winced at its lack of comfort. Something was wrong here. Really wrong. Something that ran far deeper than this damn headache.

For one thing, Phlox was unnaturally quiet. Completing his latest checks in unsettling silence. Strangely reluctant to meet his patient's eyes, let alone answer his increasingly antsy questions.

"So, doc… how am I doin' here?"

Taking an excessive interest in his scanner, it was several moments before Phlox turned to face him. There was a raw sadness in the doctor's eyes, that set the bells in Trip's head to all out alarm. Something was terribly wrong here, and… damn it! Why wasn't Phlox telling him what it was?

"All things considered, Commander, you're progressing exceptionally well," he said at last, offering him a smile that, to Trip's surprise, contrasted so starkly with the strained tone of his voice. It was one of near exasperation, as if he found his patient's anxiety as a groundless nuisance.

"Perfectly well. This headache is just normal after effects of the surgery. Nothing to worry about."

In the space of a few seconds, Trip's eyes widened, then tightened into a puzzled frown. Great. So, on top of everything else he wasn't being told here, now he was a damn hypochondriac too?

Well, to hell with that.

Sitting carefully upright, Trip waited until the room stopped spinning, then narrowed his eyes, throwing their sharper focus towards the figure who'd already moved tellingly away from him. He trusted the Denobulan doctor with his life. Hell, he'd saved it enough times to have earned a sainthood. If he said he'd needed surgery, for an injury he couldn't even remember, he would still believe him.

But if something about its necessity hadn't quite worked out, then… damn it, he had the right to know. And in the absence of a medical degree, he'd just have to rely on years of his own, painful experience.

"No offence, doc, but I've had more concussions than I can count. I've never needed surgery for any of 'em."

Nothing. No smile, or cheering assurance. Just silence, that turned a prompting smile to a deeper frown. This change he kept sensing, seeing, and feeling around him, was starting to really grate on his nerves. Not just from Phlox either, but pretty much everyone else on the ship. Even Jon too, and – oh, God.

Fragments of memory were returning now, into a mind that was still struggling to heal itself. They'd been testing his new theory for stabilising the warp field. And it had been working perfectly.

'…damn, that's a beautiful sound…'

Then other sounds had taken its place. Blaring alarms, turning his moment of triumph into the very worst of his nightmares.

'…I've got a primary injector flare… I'm shuttin' down…'

More images. Fires burning. Yelling. Shouting. Himself, scrambling up its ladder to the top of the core. His teams, reluctantly following his orders, and bundling themselves to safety, while he stayed behind. Bearing the duty he'd sworn his life to. Save them, save his ship. Then, and only then, save himself.

So close. Running for his life across the top of his beloved reactors, he'd almost made it. Come so close. So close.

Against his silent horror, those final pieces of memory fell into place. A surge of heat, throwing him violently sideways. Pain. Unbearable pain. Then falling. Falling.

A face. Another face, that had haunted him to the brink of suicide, and…no.

Oh, God, no. Not again.

Trip's eyes widened, reflecting the horror of what these flashbacks of memory were now telling him.

"Oh, God, the – the explosion! Is – Is that it, doc? Has – Has someone died 'cause of me?"

For anyone, whether human engineer or Denobulan doctor, the thought was devastating. But for Trip, the silence that answered him, the helpless grief in Phlox's eyes, turned devastation into complete despair. A shock that was too much for his still healing body and mind to take, as everything around him spun out of focus.

Strong but gentle hands gripped his shoulders, easing him down. A soft voice finally offered comfort.

"Try to relax, Commander… Trip… it's all right now, just try to relax. Deep breaths. That's it."

Trip? He'd called him Trip? But the doc never called him Trip. Commander. It was always –

– Commander, Trip thought, struggling through a sudden, inexplicable blur of greyness to hear what he was saying.

"…and I'm calling the Captain now, so we can… well, tell you what you need to know."

Still groggy from the faint, and wondering what the hell he was talking about, Trip just nodded. His head was threatening to explode now, and it was all he could do to keep Phlox in focussed vision. He heard him pause, until his hail was answered. Then words that, however quiet, still turned Trip's blood to ice.

"He's starting to remember, Captain. For that, and other reasons… yes. Yes, Captain, he needs to be told."

Breaking the connection, Phlox returned to Trip's bedside, forcing himself to meet his patient's eyes. That's what he'd remember most about Sim. About his selfless, tragically sacrificed son. Those trusting, perfect blue eyes.

And in his quarters, Jonathan Archer sat staring at his comm unit with the same, silent dread. This was it. The moment he'd know would inevitably come. He'd spent two days already, trying to work out how to face it. As he stood, braced himself, then left his quarters, its answer still eluded him.