Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.

Dedicated to Serit, who gave me the idea for it!

Beta'd by MizJoely, to whom all due thanks as always!

"You see, you were looking at my hands when you should have been looking at my eyes."

The words came out of Malcolm Reed in a gasp as he pinned his hated rival to the floor of the gymnasium, venomously parroting Hayes himself on an earlier occasion.

Now that the long-delayed day of reckoning was finally here, one fall was never going to decide it. This was going to go on until one of them surrendered or was knocked out for the count, and as far as Malcolm was concerned he was fighting not only for the honour of Starfleet but also for the control of his department. All the pent-up fear and resentment he'd been harbouring since the MACOs had been brought on board had finally exploded, and like a pair of stags who'd been eyeing each other and brandishing their antlers for long enough, he and Major Hayes were going head to head in a battle that one of them had to lose.

Intending no more than to push himself off from the man underneath him, so that they could both get back on their feet and the fight could continue, he bent his arms slightly for additional leverage. The movement, however, brought him close enough to the major to stop him dead, frozen by a memory that had suddenly caught him by the throat.

For all the occasions when he and Hayes had confronted one another, there had never been one where the major had been sweating from physical exertion. Naturally, like everyone else on board, Hayes observed a meticulous hygiene routine, and normally his antiperspirant would have ensured he was odourless. During training bouts he sweated just as everyone else did, but the two of them had been careful never to engage in a bout with each other, both aware that it was all too likely to get out of hand just as this one had done.

Now, however, Malcolm was in extremely close proximity to the man, and his rival had clearly not expected to engage in fisticuffs and therefore hadn't taken the additional precautions. Reed's flared nostrils caught the smell of him, close up – sweat mingled with the distinctive body odour that every human being produces, and both intermixed with the particular after-shave he used to produce a smell that triggered memories in the back of the tactical officer's brain that were as clear as though the incident had happened only yesterday.

The lieutenant pulled back now as though burned, the colour draining out of his face. He could feel the hands holding him, the fists thudding into his body, the agony of a boot slamming into his groin. His guts churned with the remembered sense of helplessness, of terror and rage and pain, as well as the molten dread of what worse might be to follow. And at one point during those interminable minutes, when the tape across his mouth had prevented him uttering so much as a scream for mercy, he'd pitched forward against a solid body whose smell he'd inhaled just as the hard hands belonging to it thrust him back into hell.

He no longer wanted to beat Hayes to a standstill. He wanted to beat him to a pulp. Because that night Jag had been born, Jag who'd been the antithesis of everything Malcolm Reed had ever aspired to be, and now it was Jag who knelt astride the MACO major and panted with the lust to kill. It was fortunate indeed that he wasn't in uniform. Old habits die hard, and one or two of the pockets of his Starfleet coveralls concealed singularly non-regulation weapons. The temptation to use one of them might have been far too strong for his self-discipline.

"You! It was you!" he hissed. "You cowardly bastard. Bloody MACOs, five on to one! Feel good, did it, beating the crap out of a Starfleet cadet you'd taken by surprise? Bastard!"

For a moment, Hayes's face went blank with what looked like genuine bewilderment. Then, to Malcolm's vengeful satisfaction, knowledge welled up in it. "You," he said, his tone grim. "I didn't know. They didn't name names."

"No. Funnily enough, they didn't introduce themselves to me either," spat Reed, springing to his feet. "Now stand up and let's see if you're as brave man to man as you were when I was outnumbered five to one!"

The major sat up, but didn't rise. He sat with his arms resting across his knees, looking up darkly. Colour scorched his cheekbones, but his eyes were steady. "It wasn't what you think."

"Oh, I know exactly what it was, Hayes. I was there. I was the one getting the beating, so I think that gives me a pretty realistic picture. Of course, yours might not have been quite so vivid. Maybe your memory's playing tricks. I assure you mine isn't. I could still point to where the bruises were. Every last one of them." He sprang backwards, bouncing on the balls of his feet with his eagerness to fight. "Get up, and we'll keep this between ourselves. Stay there and I'll walk out of here and into the captain's office, and your precious unit'll be short of a leader before you can say MACO."

"I doubt that," said Hayes evenly, finally standing up. "I think Captain Archer has more on his mind than helping you take your petty revenge for something you damn well earned."

Malcolm stopped and blinked at him in utter disbelief, sure he must have heard incorrectly. "Something I earned?" he repeated.

The other man looked scornful. "You think MACOs go round beating decent guys up for nothing? I know you don't think much of us in general, Lieutenant, but we have our code of honor too."

"If it includes the concept of five to one being fair odds then you can bloody well keep it!" He almost spat, but remembered just in time where he was.

"I didn't hit you." The major's voice was level. "You don't have to believe that, but it's the truth."

Malcolm laughed with incredulous derision. "Assuming I believed you, what sodding difference does that make? You think I'm going to let you off just because you tagged along as a bloody spectator just for the fun of it? You think I should have been able to cope against four? I'm flattered. These days I might stand more of a chance, assuming I was warned in advance of course, but I still wouldn't give me good odds. Back then I didn't have a prayer in hell, and don't tell me you didn't know that!"

"Of course I knew that. That was why I was there."

With a strangled moan of fury, Malcolm launched himself at the man who'd now become his mortal enemy as well as his deadly rival. He unleashed a series of blows that could quite possibly have killed if they'd landed fully, but Hayes blocked or deflected them all, retaliating with a measured force that somehow added insult to injury. For a couple of moments they traded hits, none of which landed hard enough to do significant damage, but some of which would certainly leave marks.

The Starfleet officer pulled back, both to catch his breath and to plan his next assault. As filled with rage as he was, it didn't make him reckless. Jag had never been reckless when he fought, just infinitely cold and deadly. After so long, the feeling again of that terrible hellish purpose was at once exhilarating and sickening.

Hayes didn't let him rest or plan for long. A couple of probing strikes kept him moving, kept him unbalanced. Malcolm smiled and Jaguar snarled, and a retreat turned into a move from the Ke-ta-yatar that T'Pol certainly wouldn't have coached him in if she'd even dreamed he'd use it to try to kill one of his subordinate officers. After all, there were no witnesses. It would be put down as a tragic accident, an outcome nobody could have foreseen in a grudge match that had escalated into a brawl.

The major evaded it – just. Rolled away and got to his feet fast. "That was a bit dirty, Lieutenant," he said, breathing unevenly. "I guess we had you about right back then. I had my doubts, but maybe it's a pity I tagged along after all."

"What, and miss all the fun? I hardly think so." Realising that he was close to being manoeuvred into a corner, Jag made a break for clearer ground, unleashing a savage sideways slash as he did so. Unfortunately, his opponent had obviously anticipated this or even planned it. The slash was blocked without effort, and a retaliatory kick caught him low in the side. He stumbled, and a second kick while he was caught off balance took him in the ribs and sent him crashing to the floor.

The experience of a dozen dirty fights told him if he was on the floor he was a dead man. Even as he rolled he got off a couple of vicious kicks to keep Hayes at bay.

Rather to his surprise, however, the other man didn't follow up at once, but stood waiting for him to get up again.

He scrambled up, snarling. "Queensberry Rules, eh, Major?"

"Sharks fight clean, Lieutenant. Unlike squids, apparently."

Malcolm was so shocked by the utter gall of this statement that he very nearly dropped his guard. "You bloody, hypocritical bastard! You call four on to one clean?" he roared.

Hayes shrugged. "You had a reputation. If we wanted to teach you a lesson we had to make sure."

Even Jag was so stunned he stopped snarling long enough to stare. "Teach me a lesson? What sodding lesson? 'How to get the shit kicked out of you in three easy steps'?"

"You really have no idea, have you? You think you can just insult a lady and get away with it. Well, that time you didn't." The major folded his arms and looked at him contemptuously, daring him to get on with it.

He had no idea whatsoever of the risk he was taking; Jag had long ago forgotten the concept of fighting fair. However, sheer incredulity held both Jag and Malcolm frozen to the floor.

"Insult – a–" Mind and memory spun. Deborah, beautiful and beguiling and too ready to fall in love; the latest in a long line of women who'd mistakenly thought him worth the risk. He put a hand to his head, momentarily too bewildered even to remember he was in the middle of a fight, and began struggling desperately to put together the pieces of a jigsaw that wouldn't fit. She hadn't been like that; however his rejection had hurt her, she would never have arranged for something like that to happen. Her sweetness had been the chief reason he'd known he had to step away before he damaged her. And besides, the time-line was wrong. She couldn't have known that evening that he was going to reject her. He hadn't even been sure of it himself, caught between the conflicting gravitational pulls of his desire and what was left of his conscience.

Had he been wrong about her? Had she been far from the ingénue she'd seemed? Could he possibly have misjudged her so badly, have failed to see the kind of spiteful, vindictive arrogance that would –

And after all these years, the light finally dawned.

Sain.

The Graduates' Ball.

Arabella Sain had been easily the most elegant woman there, and by far the most beautiful. And she knew it. The only thing that had repelled him more than her arrogance had been her determination to have him – not because she wanted him physically, nor even because she was infuriated by his paying attention to Deborah, who by accepted standards of beauty was utterly eclipsed by her. Just because she couldn't bear to have any man refuse her. It wouldn't have mattered to her that every other man in the place would have traded his soul for an invitation to her bed. She wanted the man she couldn't have, and that inability would have festered until she was able to find some way of avenging herself.

Yes. And now that he came to think of it, she'd graciously accepted the particular homage of a young MACO corporal that night. He'd noticed it, because he noticed most things, but had thought it of no importance except insofar as it meant Deborah would probably be safer from her spite now she had a conquest.

Deborah had been safe. It was he who'd been in danger, and he hadn't even known.

He looked at Hayes, his eyes narrowed as he tried to bring the minor details more clearly into focus. Even allowing for the intervening years, however, he couldn't fit a younger version of Jeremiah Hayes into the picture.

"So why did you tag along?" he asked slowly. It wasn't that the fight was over, necessarily – he was ready to kick off again in an instant – but the need to think had pushed the red rage back just a little. He even noticed, and was a little surprised, that he'd accepted without question the other man's assertion that he hadn't taken part in the beating himself. With that acceptance had come the conviction that watching an unequal fight turn into a massacre wasn't Hayes's idea of entertainment, even if he believed that the punishment was justified.

"To protect my team," the MACO said bluntly. "Some of them were hot-heads. They'd have gone too far. I knew if I was there I could control the situation. It was as simple as that."

As simple as that. Bloody, sodding hell. He'd had the crap beaten out of him because Arabella Sain couldn't stand being refused, and he'd had Jeremiah sodding Hayes presiding over the event to make sure he got only what he was owed and no more. Presumably because beyond a certain point more awkward questions would be asked, not to mention the possibility of an embarrassing amount of DNA becoming available. A more unlikely guardian angel could hardly be imagined.

Malcolm found he was laughing – loud, unhinged laughs that echoed off the walls. "Bloody hell," he gasped, when he was able to draw breath again. "Oh, that's bloody hilarious. Arabella Sain. That conceited, shallow-minded, arrogant bitch."

"You insulted the lady. She said you needed to be taught respect."

"'Respect'!" This was even funnier. His laughter splintered. "You've no idea what that night taught me, Major. Or what it cost me. For what it's worth, she set up your dear little corporal to be her catspaw because she wanted me as a trophy shag and I turned her down. I was with someone else and she couldn't handle it. So that's what you were so carefully 'supervising' that night. An innocent man paying for his right to say 'No'."

For the first time, Reed saw a flicker of uncertainty cross his opponent's features.

"You had a reputation."

"Oh, certainly." His smile was feral. "Guilty as charged. I'm not claiming to be a saint, Hayes. For what it's worth, I've probably earned what I got that night a dozen times over since, and more. But not that time. You and your MACO mates hanged an innocent man to please a whore."

Another thought occurred to him, making him chuckle again, utterly without humour. "You might want to have a chat with Commander Tucker about it, you know. It was he who put a stop to that delightful time we were all having. I'm sure he'd think it was nearly as funny as I do."

"Tucker?" The other man looked startled, as well he might.

"Oh, yes. I recognised him when I came on board. That showed me what a small world it is. I suppose I should have expected that sooner or later I'd bump into one of the charming fellows who used me as a punch-bag. And lo and behold, here you are." The humour fell off his face as though it had succumbed to planetary-mass gravity. "Still feel good about it, do you? Still want to go on believing I was guilty? Or are you having second thoughts, assuming you give me enough credit to believe I actually know how tell the truth? Has one bloody word of this got through your colossal arrogance?"

"We were bound to accept the word of a lady," Hayes said stiffly, but it was obvious that he was badly shaken.

Malcolm turned away with another crack of bitter laughter. "So you were. Pity your dear little corporal didn't know he wasn't dealing with one."

He walked over to where he'd dropped his towel and the bottle of water. He upended the bottle and drank until he choked.

"Malcolm –" A hand came to rest tentatively on his shoulder.

"No!" Jag tore himself away with a snarl. "I don't want anything from you, Major. Not an apology, not an explanation, not anything. Just your obedience to your commanding officer – the man you watched beaten up for nothing."

Hayes came rigidly to parade rest. "If you wish to make a statement to the authorities, sir, you'll have my full co-operation."

"You can keep your co-operation, Major. As you're so fond of reminding me, we've got a mission to do, and the captain's got more than enough on his plate without me offloading one of the sordid little episodes in my unsavoury past on him." He picked up the towel and slung it around his neck. "Nothing you could say, nothing you could do, no punishment any court could hand down to you would ever give me my life back the way it would have been if that night hadn't happened. So for what it's worth, that can be your punishment. Knowing you were wrong, for once in your life. And maybe next time you find yourself being so bloody certain of your own self-righteousness you might think twice." A blazing glance quelled what might have been an intention to move or speak. "Oh, and maybe if we all get through this you might think it worth your while to tell the others who were involved what you've discovered. I'd rather like my innocence established after all these years."

"I'll do that, sir." The voice was quiet, but steady. "And for what it's worth, whether you accept it or not, I'm truly sorry."

Without another word Malcolm left the gymnasium. The fight was over, and nobody had won, and he was left with nothing more than a dull sense of wonder and an all-encompassing bitterness.

As he stumbled down the corridor, he began to feel the first stirrings of horror and shame at his behaviour. He should go to the captain right this minute and confess what he'd done, and while he was about it he should admit to the rest of his sorry history too. The only thing that stopped him was the realisation that just as he'd told Hayes, Captain Archer had more than enough to worry about without discovering that he had a Doctor Jekyll as his Head of Tactical. It wasn't as though he could take the appropriate action and get a replacement.

There was nothing for it. He had to keep silence, pleading innocence if Hayes brought any accusations of just how evil his intent had been. Archer trusts you, jeered Jag. He won't believe a word of it.

Never again, he told himself desperately. From now on, you are who you say you are.

As his for his disgraceful conduct - for now, his shame would have to be his only punishment. Confession was a luxury the welfare of the ship couldn't afford.

He was half way back to his quarters when Captain Archer's voice sounded over the comm. "Tactical Alert. Senior officers to their posts."

He stopped, and exhaled on a long, shuddering sigh. No doubt the captain would note the marks he and Hayes had left on one another. It was a working certainty that sooner or later there would be an inquisition into the cause, and that the experience would not be a pleasant one. However, that was part of the price he'd have to pay for finally clearing up two mysteries that had bedevilled him for so long: why on earth he'd been attacked all those years ago, and why Trip's unexpected advent had scared off a band of thugs who still outnumbered them both more than two to one.

He ran a hand through his disordered hair and glanced down ruefully at the water and sweat stains on his tank top. His appearance was going to fall dismally short of his usual standards on the Bridge, but hell, technically he was off duty anyway. Though being off duty was not going to be taken as any excuse for acquiring the black eye and split lip Hayes had decorated his face with during the course of their little exchange, nor for handing out his own tokens of affection in return. Let alone actually attempting to kill one of his own ship's complement, a man whose importance to the mission could well prove paramount. He shivered at the enormity of what he'd so nearly done.

Well. If nothing else on the plus side, he had closure. And right now the ship needed her Tactical Officer. It was time to put Jag back in the cage where he belonged; it was Malcolm Reed who was a member of the crew of the Enterprise.

For a long moment he looked around, eyes narrowed and suspicious. Belong nowhere. Trust no-one.

'Senior officers to their posts.'

I belong here. I trust them. They trust me.

Jag chuckled once, on a fading note of bitterness. Then more fool them, wouldn't you say?

Then he was silent.

And Malcolm Reed started running.

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