Star Trek and all its intellectual property is owned by Paramount/CBS. No infringement intended, no profit made.
This story has not been beta-read, so any mistakes in it are mine.
Dedicated to all the kind people who enjoy my stories, because I've been giving Malcolm a rotten time lately and this is my way of making amends a little.
The doorbell rang just as Hoshi was coming in out of the garden. Little Charles was in her arms – she'd lifted him up to show him the mistletoe in one of the apple trees – but at the sound of the chime he shrieked to be put down. "Nana Shewwy!"
His lisp always made her grin. He'd lose it soon of course, but in the meantime it was fun hearing him refer to his namesake 'Uncle Chwip' who was 'Dada's fwen'', and whose frequent video-calls and occasional visits were red-letter days in his world. But their most regular visitor was Malcolm's aunt, who had been invited to visit over Christmas, and whose arrival they were expecting sometime this afternoon.
With her sensitive hearing, the noise was ear-splitting. She winced, and set him down hurriedly, smiling as he ran across the warm kitchen; at nearly two years old, it was already plain that he had inherited his father's steely determination, for he was already trying to reach the door handle by the time she caught up with him.
This, of course, was beyond him. "Let Nana Shewwy in, Mumma!" He looked up pleadingly and she opened it for him.
The hallway was immediately beyond. To the left was the staircase, its ancient polished oak garlanded for the festive season; to the right was the door into the lounge, where the Christmas tree stood in the window, its pine-scented darkness a perfect foil for the white and silver decorations and the brilliant white lights festooning it. She'd stayed up late one night to decorate the house, and filmed Charles' face next morning as he came into the lounge and saw the tree in all its glory; that was one of the joys she meant to share with friends and family over the Christmas season.
With one person in particular. But she wasn't sure when Malcolm would be home; his last call from the Jupiter construction yards had shown her the worry and frustration on his face. His responsibilities now that war was on the horizon were crushing, and there never seemed to be enough hours in the day for everything he needed to do. He called her whenever he could, sometimes late in the night because there hadn't been time to ring her earlier; always with the sense of snatched moments and overloaded shoulders. Always asking after his son, wanting to see glimpses of what duty was stealing from him. Always circumspect in his words to her, though his eyes told a different story.
She knew he was trying to shield her from the worst of the worry, but that events were taking on an unstoppable momentum. The Romulan Empire was relentlessly expansionistic. Thank heaven that the Vulcans, the Andorians and even the Tellarites had finally agreed to put aside their historic differences and combine their strength with Starfleet's to face their common enemy; but it was so late, so very late, to start to build a cohesive strategy, with three out of the four partners far more accustomed to quarreling rather than co-operating with each other. Enterprise would be in the forefront of the defensive line-up, but there would be new faces on the Bridge when she finally re-launched under Jonathan Archer's command; the experience of the officers who'd shipped out in her and faced the Expanse was far too valuable an asset to be wasted, and they'd all been redistributed where they could do the most good. There was talk of Malcolm gaining a promotion to stand as Captain Ramirez's XO aboard Intrepid, and although he certainly wouldn't refuse it, she knew Ramirez by reputation and was quite sure that Intrepid would be among the first ships into battle if the worst came to the worst….
Resolutely she pushed the fear yet again to the back of her mind as she followed her son up the length of the polished oak floorboards towards the door where the irregular impression of the holly garland showed dark against the gray sky behind the leaded glass pane. It was Christmas Eve. The gathering shadows were the best of all reason for making absolutely the utmost of all the joy there was to be had.
It was not Aunt Sherrie after all, but a delivery man, so wrapped up against the cold that his lowered face was hardly visible under the sheltering fur-edged hood. Swallowing disappointment, Hoshi accepted the proffered parcel, wishing him a dutiful 'Merry Christmas!' and was about to step back into the hall and console her disappointed son when a gloved hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, dragging her forward across the step. The parcel fell to the floor as the other arm clamped around her waist, and suddenly she was being soundly kissed by her husband within the shelter of his coat-hood, while their son's delighted cries of 'Dada! Dada!' echoed across the foggy, frozen landscape and he flung both arms around his father's leg.
"Come in! Oh, come in!" She found she was crying, which was stupid, but she didn't seem able to stop.
"Later, darling. Later." The quick lift of his eyebrows made a joke of the promise his eyes made. "But not too much later, I hope," he breathed in her ear before bending to pick Charles up and include him in the bear-hug. "And this young man has been growing!"
"Dada! Dada!" The child covered his father's face with haphazard kisses as the three of them stumbled somehow into the hallway, the parcel kicked in anyhow with a lack of regard that implied it didn't contain anything breakable. "Dada home!"
Malcolm submitted to the kisses with a look of resignation that completely failed to disguise the shine of joy in his eyes when he looked at his son. "Yes, Dada's home. Someone has to make sure your mother doesn't burn the turkey."
"Oh, you!" Hoshi wiped her eyes and punched him lightly in the ribs. "You'll never believe how domesticated I am these days. Even Mrs Phillips told me the other day that my carrot cake was improving."
"Oh yes?" He released her reluctantly and put Charles down, but only long enough to take off his coat, scarf and boots. "And who's this Mrs Phillips who's so fulsome with her praise?"
She giggled. "She's the president of the WI. I meet her sometimes when I go to visit Aunt Sherrie. She's an absolute terror."
Her husband scowled up at her from the second step of the staircase, where he was now sitting while Charles carefully and inexpertly tried to fit the left slipper on to his right foot. "She'd better not try terrorizing you, or she'll get a taste of her own medicine."
She loved him for only being partly joking, and leaned down to kiss him soundly. His mouth was warm and tasted of spearmint – he'd presumably had a wash and brush-up at the airport after his connecting flight from Heathrow.
Having now fitted both slippers (more or less) on to the wrong feet, Charles beamed up at his father. "Dada go bed!"
"You're worse than your mother – she can never wait to get me into bed either!"
"Malcolm!" She swatted at him with the back of her hand and delivered a warning glare that would have been more effectual if she'd been able to hide the grin that went with it.
"What?" He defended himself half-heartedly, with a wicked grin of his own. "Only the truth hurts!"
"You're such a…." But the saying little pitchers have big ears was becoming far more real to her now that Charles at nearly two years old was starting to learn how to string together the words he knew; if he'd inherited her gift with languages (and for his age he already knew a considerable number, so far she'd identified at least seventy, including a regrettable 'buddyell'), both she and Malcolm would have to be extremely careful in front of him from now on.
"Such a wonderful husband, is what you were trying to say." He pulled her down for another kiss, while their son beamed at them both.
It had been so long since she'd been in his arms; she pulled away with an effort, her eyes making promises of their own. Later, love, later… "I'll make you a coffee, love."
"Could do with it. It's been a pig of a drive up from Newquay." He followed her into the kitchen, walking somewhat awkwardly in his mis-fitted slippers and kissing the back of her neck while Charles slapped him reproachfully, evidently feeling that all the kissy stuff had gone on long enough. "Have I ever told you, you have the most beautiful…"
"MALCOLM!"
"…ears," he finished, with injured innocence, conjuring a box from his jeans pocket. "I can't wait to give you an early Christmas present to put in them."
Many messages passed literally and metaphorically over Charles' head, but he evidently felt that something naughty was going on nevertheless, because as his mother opened the box to reveal the pair of elegant gold drops on velvet within he pushed his father to the kitchen table, where they sat down side by side. Even before the hot coffee was ready, the table top was strewn with crayoned pictures, many of them evidently supposed to be of Enterprise, complete with stick figures to represent the crew. The one that was saved for last, and produced with great pride, had one of the stick figures inexpertly labeled DADY.
Malcolm enthused over them all, and asked if he could keep the one with DADY on it. Watching him, Hoshi envisaged his old cabin on Enterprise with the picture pinned up in pride of place on the notice-board there, and blinked away another tear as she realized why he wanted to keep it: the cabin on Intrepid would be far from those he loved. Charles, of course, was far too young to have any concept of the growing threat of war, but there was still something infinitely touching in the way he pressed the drawing into his father's hands and hugged him.
This angelic behavior wouldn't last, of course. Charles Matthew Sato-Reed was a typical two-year old with a will he inherited from both of his parents. But the magic of having his father home would exercise a powerful spell, at least for a time, and he was already becoming aware that neither his mother nor his father were impressed in the slightest by his experimental tantrums; it was a fair bet that he would not want 'Dada' to see him perched on the Naughty Step in disgrace if it could be avoided.
Hoshi made her own drink of mint tea and a beaker of warm milk for Charles. It was time for his afternoon nap, and she usually allowed him to have it in the lounge, company for both of them in the long quiet afternoons. The light was draining fast out of the world outside, and the tree lights made the advancing dusk even colder and more remote; she settled Charles down with the beaker among the cushions in the armchair where he normally slept, and as he obediently began drinking she covered him with an old dressing gown.
Malcolm was staring at it. "I recognize that, don't I?"
"It was your Uncle Edward's." Hoshi took hold of his hand. "We were staying at Aunt Sherrie's one day and this young man wasn't very well. Sherrie brought down this dressing gown and covered him up with it, and he went to sleep like a dream. And ever since then it's been his nap blanket."
"Bloody hell," he murmured, fingering the shabby green tartan. "'The cure for everything'. I remember it so well."
The remote control was lying on the mantelpiece. Hoshi used it to half-draw the curtains, keeping the tree visible but shutting out the cold world beyond, and to turn up the fire. The house was fully centrally heated of course, but there was a cosy magic in real flames flickering among the logs in the hearth. Last of all she turned on the audio player. Throughout the past week she'd been listening to the traditional old English carols that were still sung in the churches here; it had somehow seemed to bring the sense of her husband nearer as she imagined how he must have looked all those years ago, a solemn, thin-faced child in the Christmas choir.
'God rest you, Merrie Gentlemen, let nothing you dismay…'
Hard to hold on to such simple faith, when the shadows of war were advancing, but still there was something deeply and profoundly touching in that ancient carol. She saw the conflict in his face, but saw also the acceptance of it as inevitable.
Setting the drinks down on the side table, he sat down on the sofa and held out his arms to her. "Love, I've waited so long for this."
"Oh, Malcolm." She felt him gathering her in, into warmth, into strength, into safety. She slid her arms underneath his jumper and shirt, wrapping them around his body – the body that still showed the scars, the testament to what he'd suffered, but the body that had survived and healed well enough to serve Starfleet again in the defense of everything he held dear. He would never again be as superbly fit as he had been, and he probably pressed himself harder than he should do even now, but that was the Malcolm Reed she loved.
Even in front of their now sleepy two-year-old, he was shy of showing passion. His kisses were tender, but restrained. His hands slid under her blouse, but only to rest on her skin in worship of its softness.
Singing was not among the talents he would have claimed for himself. Nevertheless, the years in the choir of St Matthew's Church had taught him the words by heart, and though his voice was nothing special it was still a pleasant one. He turned his head slightly to look across at his son, and sang very softly along with the carol. 'O tidings of comfort and joy – comfort and joy…'
And that was when she told him her own 'tidings of comfort and joy'.
His gaze shortened to take her in.
Her heart skipped a beat. He already bore such a burden of responsibility; maybe he would feel this was the very last thing he needed right now, another worry on his already overburdened shoulders.
"You're sure?" he whispered, hardly seeming to breathe.
"Yes," she whispered back. "Two months. Your last shore leave." It had been a snatched overnight stay, with hardly time to kiss his sleeping son and share his wife's bed before the taxi had been waiting outside in the gray dawn, but there had been time enough….
She had kept the news to herself deliberately, wanting to tell him first and in person, but having to guard every word she uttered in those brief and all too rare video calls. Now, watching incredulity followed by utter delight spread across his face, she thought every minute had been worth it. Relief flooded through her like champagne.
Slowly he sat up, parted the bottom of her blouse and pushed down the waistband of her skirt. He surveyed the still almost-flat surface of her belly as though he'd never seen it before, and then dropped a slow, reverent kiss on it before carefully restoring her clothing to order and nestling down with her again.
"Oh, Hoshi. Oh, I'm so proud. And so grateful," he said in a low voice.
"You did have something to do with it, you know," she teased, stroking his face.
"But this time – Hoshi, I'll be here for you whenever I can–." He broke off. War is coming. He hadn't been able to be there for her last time. The chances were that he wouldn't do much better this time either. Depending on events, he might not even live to see his second child born.
… 'To free all those who trust in Him from Satan's power and might…'
"I'm not sure the Romulans exactly qualify as Satan," she said, smiling. "But you'll be fighting to save us from their power and might. I think that might pass as a good enough excuse. Just this once. But don't do it again."
He kissed her gently. "I'll hold you to that."
"And one more thing," she went on, taking hold of his hand. "Do you want to know which it is?"
He hesitated, and then nodded.
She paused, drawing out the suspense, and then took pity on him. "It's a girl. And if you agree, I'd like to call her Sherrie. Sherrie Jessa."
They'd talked. He'd forgotten she was a linguist without peer, hearing far more than was said with mere words.
His gaze dropped momentarily, then rose again to meet hers, equally clear and glad. "I would like that very much."
Enclosed again within his arms, Hoshi thought she'd in her life before never felt so safe, so cherished.
It was probably inevitable that at that moment the doorbell rang, putting an end to the enchanted idyll. Charles was a child of habit, and had undoubtedly been nodding towards sleep, but the prospect of a peaceful hour had just gone by the board; however tired he might be, additional guests in addition to his father's arrival would put off any idea of a nap.
Malcolm groaned. "Aunt, you have the most execrable timing."
"I love her to bits, but I was so much enjoying that." She burrowed his face into his jumper, reluctant to get up.
"You think that was good, wait till I get you to myself tonight. That's unless…"
"Oh, no, Mister Reed. You don't get away from me that easily!" Laughing, Hoshi rolled away from his grasp. She was finding this pregnancy easier than her first, though in every way the circumstances were different, and meant to make the very most of the undoubtedly short time she would have with him. "But we've got to be polite. Guests we invited to the house."
He sank his face into a cushion and muttered something about delayed detonations being extra powerful.
Charles was, indeed, waking up. His eyes were as bright as a squirrel's over the top of the dressing gown. "No – stay there." His mother lifted a warning finger. "And don't even think about asking Daddy."
"Absolutely not. First thing a wise man learns, son: never argue with Mum." He disengaged from the cushion and stood up.
Even in this short time, the evening had closed in. The twinkling lights in the garland up the stairs were the only source of illumination in the hall, but the lantern outside had come on and its light was spilling across the arched doorway outside, over which the roses would tumble in the spring.
Malcolm reached the door first. He pulled it open, words of welcome on his lips.
And froze.
Hoshi was right behind him but took a stealthy step backwards. This was for him to deal with as he saw fit. She would not interfere, one way or the other, until or unless she was asked to.
"Malcolm." His mother was clutching a gaily-wrapped box as though fearing it might explode if she let go of it. "It – it's Christmas."
"I noticed," he said stiffly.
"And – and you're married."
"Six months ago." A pause. "Did you get the invitation?"
Too long a silence. A few snowflakes blew on the wind, on the edge of the light.
"We should have accepted it." A deeper voice. "You'd been generous enough to send it. I suppose it … it took time for us … for me …to realize that time isn't infinite. And Christmas is a time for," a deep breath, "for forgiveness, if you can find any in your heart for a stubborn, blind old fool."
Hoshi wanted to take her husband's hand. She forced herself to stay still.
'…A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices, For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn…'
In the dim light she saw Malcolm's knuckles on the door whiten. For a split second she thought he was going to slam it. Then, he thrust it wide and stepped to one side.
"It's not going to be easy for any of us," he said steadily. "But my wife is the heart of my home. If you're willing to acknowledge and accept and love her as such, and she says you can come into our house, I'd like you to meet your grandson."
Hoshi bit her lip. She knew more than she'd ever be able to forget about the pain her husband had suffered from his father's rejection of him. But if he was willing to take the hand finally stretched out to him after all these years, she was not going to step between them.
'My wife is the heart of my home'. It gave her an immense dignity, an honor in her husband's eyes that would enable her to rise above the fact that these people had ignored the invitation to their son's wedding and the birth of their first grandson. She stepped forward, feeling like a queen in her own small realm, and extended her hand.
Mrs Reed's hand was trembling. Tears stood in her eyes. "Oh, my dear, I'm so sorry," she whispered.
Hoshi's icy dignity melted; she knew where the chief portion of blame lay. "Come in out of the cold, Mother." She glanced up into the eyes that waited for hers; not so very unlike his son's after all – for a moment she was back on the newly-minted Bridge of Enterprise, staring into a pair of wary gray eyes that held her at a distance while they took her measure. "Father – please come in."
It almost seemed that neither of the visitors had expected the invitation. They moved slowly, almost woodenly, though maybe that was something to do with the cold, the killing cold that Malcolm moved quickly to shut out.
Awkwardly, Mrs Reed thrust the wrapped box at her son. "There's something for each of you," she faltered. "But I didn't know – we weren't sure–."
He took the box from her and set it down. "That will wait, and I don't give a damn," he said softly. "Mum, I'd like to take you to meet your grandson. His name's Charles Matthew Sato-Reed, and you're going to love him."
He took her into the lounge. Hoshi heard the sound of a sob.
She and Malcolm's father were left in the hall, looking at each other.
"You served with him aboard Enterprise, didn't you?" Stuart Reed asked.
"Yes. He was my senior officer, and respected by everyone on the ship," she said bluntly. "Now, in spite of everything that happened to him out there, he's going to be one of the people who go out there and fight to defend Earth again. His experience, his dedication, his skills, may be the tipping point of whether his ship survives or not – we may never know.
"You've missed a wonderful opportunity to be a father to an amazing son, sir. It's up to you whether you take the chance you've been given. I hope for his sake that you're big enough to do it."
"I hope so too," he said slowly. "I can't change the past, but I can try to make amends for it. Is that enough?"
"If it's enough for him, it's enough for me." She gestured towards the lounge. "Please. Come in. And … Merry Christmas."
=/\=
Much later, Hoshi lay with her head on Malcolm's chest. His arm was around her shoulders, and his free hand rested lightly on her belly.
War is coming. But cradled in his arms, it was impossible to believe that war would be forever, or that evil would ultimately triumph.
The house was quiet. In the nursery next door, Charles slept with one thumb stuck in his mouth and a rather portly toy rabbit tucked under one arm, a gift from his new 'Gwanny Mawy'. In the room beyond, Aunt Sherrie snored very genteelly, having played with her great-nephew all evening until both of them were too tired to keep their eyes open.
"It doesn't feel like any of this is real," Malcolm said at last, very quietly. "Is it possible that everything's coming right at last … or is this just the universe's last great joke on all of us before the end?"
"I don't know, love," she whispered. "All I know is, everything I've ever wanted is here. And for now, let's just enjoy it while we have it."
"I couldn't have put it better myself." He wrapped both of his arms around her. "Hoshi, love, you mean everything to me. I'm so glad I married you."
"Ditto." She pressed her forehead against his chest, hearing the strong heartbeat behind it: the heart that was hers.
The world outside was silent. The snow was starting to fall more thickly, fat flakes drifting down from the clouds as though the angels were plucking geese.
The audio unit had been switched off long ago. But still the notes of the last carol seemed to drift through the house.
'…Sleep in heavenly pe-eace; Sleep in heavenly peace.'
The End.
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