Grateful thanks to RoaringMice for her usual excellent beta job

Malcolm entered the launchbay and cast a wary look around. Two crewmen were there, unloading the last of the antimatter canisters from Shuttlepod One. At the sound of someone arriving they turned and greeted him with a curt nod, to which he responded likewise.

It certainly wasn't irregular not to give a superior officer a vocal salute; and it had been a hell of a tense day for everyone. But Malcolm couldn't help wondering how much today's mutiny had affected – and possibly divided – the crew; what had gone through these crewmen's minds, for example, when they had looked at him just now, after his active role in what had happened.

Malcolm watched them for a moment, the events of the last few hours replaying in his mind and momentarily cancelling the relief of seeing their antimatter reserves back on board. The crewmen laboriously placed two heavy cylinders on a cart, where others had already been stacked and, this time uttering a terse 'Night, Sir', pushed the load away and out of the bay, leaving him alone.

Silence fell. Malcolm stood immobile, letting it wash over him. It was soothing; a welcome absence of sound, after all the furtive speculations and behind-the-back plots, barked orders and tense rivalries that had characterised the day. Like a sponge erasing a chalky blackboard. It wasn't long, though, before the rumble of the warp drive pierced into his consciousness, reminding him that they were en route for their final destination: Azati Prime, the end of the road, the Weapon.

Shaking himself, Malcolm turned to the Insectoid craft they had brought on board, which was parked on the other side of Shuttlepod Two. He eyed it tiredly, with half a mind to turn on his heels and go to his quarters. The day was not over yet but his shift was, and he should really get some rest. However that's where he was coming from, his quarters; and that's why he was here, because he couldn't get any rest. It wouldn't make any sense to spend time pacing his room; much better to use it studying this vessel's tactical systems in detail.

With a sigh Malcolm started to walk around the Shuttlepod to get to the alien craft, but stopped in his tracks when he caught a glimpse of himself, reflecting imperfectly off the dark glass of the pod's porthole. How appropriate – he mulled glumly; because today he really felt far from perfect.

As he took a step closer, the image became more focused. The face looking back was the same, familiar one, and, ironically, that only served to add to his despondency: was he that good at hiding things, or were the changes in him too deep to be read on a face? Either way it was not a pleasant prospect.

The Expanse was uprooting the smooth tracks that had finally set his life on course, given him a sense of direction. This mission was questioning a good many rules that had been chiselled in his conscience since childhood and which – with a few past exceptions perhaps – he had always abided by. He was losing pieces of his righteous self and what had he got to replace them with? Ruthlessness.

Malcolm bore into the wary gaze that looked back from the reflecting port-hole. He may look the same, but he no longer felt the same.

Today he had broken one code of honourable conduct which he suspected was part of his very DNA. And it didn't matter that it had been necessary, the right thing to do. A part of him would always feel he had betrayed his blood and blemished his moral integrity, chipped another piece away. There had been many feelings at play, and not all of them befitting the man – let alone the officer – he had thought he was. Here, in this silence, after all had been said and done, he felt that very acutely.

A mutiny. He wondered if a long line of Reed Navy men were scowling at him from the afterlife. For sure he hoped his father would never need to know.

Chasing the thought away, Malcolm was about to move, when the launchbay doors opened again, and off the dark porthole he caught sight of Trip entering. He turned to face him. The Engineer took a few steps inside and cast a look around.

"I came by your quarters. Thought you'd be there," he drawled. Reassured that no one else was in the bay, he stopped, giving a shrug that said 'I should've known better'.

Trip was so easy to read, even after his loss and the changes in him – for yes, he had changed too. During the first few weeks on Enterprise, Malcolm had actually wondered how the man could go through life wearing his heart on his sleeve like that. He'd been very proud, then, of his own well-adjusted technique to achieve just the opposite. That seemed like so long ago. Nowadays he had come to see the virtue of sharing some of his feelings with someone – not everything with everyone; but some things with a good friend, yes. Notably this friend. Tonight, if this visit was anything to go by, he suspected Trip had just as much to share with him.

Malcolm lifted sarcastic eyebrows. "Right. Well, I only look like I'm ready to go to sleep," he muttered.

"Welcome to the club," Trip commented without mirth.

Indeed. Since the death of his sister the man had suffered from insomnia. Malcolm averted his gaze; the only times he felt tense around Trip were when he touched on anything that even vaguely referred to his loss. The way the engineer had reacted to his awkward efforts right after the attack had schooled him well.

"Why are you here?" Trip asked, seemingly unaware of – or perhaps ignoring – his unease. "I had to use internal sensors to find you."

Malcolm shot a look at the Insectoid vessel. "There is still much I have to discover about that craft's tactical systems, and I thought..." He trailed, frowning with a sudden suspicion. "Is something wrong?"

Was Trip looking for the Officer or the friend? On second thought, though, if this were job-related the man would have paged him.

Trip walked – trudged, really – a few steps towards Shuttlepod One and turned to face him. Blowing out a breath, he passed a hand through his hair.

"Have you ever had to shoot a friend?"

Ah. That.

"Trip, you only stunned him," Malcolm quietly replied, side-stepping what would be a long and complicated answer. He lowered his gaze as he said it, lest his eyes betray him – these days his shields were not very reliable. In that past of which nobody knew, here on board, there hadn't been real 'friends', but still...

Hands on his waist in a well-known mannerism, Trip winced. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

Malcolm tilted his head, narrowing his gaze. "I'm quite certain you'd feel a lot worse if your pistol hadn't been set to stun," he commented, deadpan.

"I'm talkin' about betrayin' him, Malcolm," Trip came back tensely. He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. "I can't stop thinkin' about what I did. I can't help feelin' like a traitor."

Yes, that was the issue that was eating at them both, wasn't it? Nice pair of mutineers they were: one, feeling like a traitor to his friend and Captain; the other, a traitor to his principles and bloodline.

Well, if supporting a mutiny had left him – Malcolm – conflicted, he could imagine how Trip had to feel. Trip had started the damn thing; plus his friendship with Archer, lately, had been suffering – which, if anything, would make him feel even guiltier.

Malcolm eyed his friend's drawn face and knew what he had to say. It was the same thing he had kept repeating to his ambivalent conscience.

"You did the right thing."

"The right thing," Trip huffed out. "Thank God Phlox..." He heaved a deep breath and waved a frustrated hand in the air. "Until the end, till the Doc had him inside the imaging chamber, I wasn't absolutely sure that... If the Capt'n had been in his right mind… if Phlox had found nothin' wrong with him..."

Trip was stuttering, but the meaning was clear. Yes. He had taken a hell of a bet; risked a court martial, even. They all had, those who had sided with him.

Malcolm met the blue gaze with unease. His friend's decision had been, apparently, quite tormented; while he himself hadn't had too many qualms joining the fast revolt. Indeed, he had readily launched into it. The way Archer had treated him on the Bridge, and his own eagerness to reassert his authority over Hayes – he had since come to realise – had played an important part in making him feel comfortable with the idea. He didn't feel quite as comfortable with that notion. He might be able to convince himself that as an officer he had acted to save their mission, but he couldn't deny that as a man he had given in to feelings of resentment and rivalry.

Seconds were ticking by.

"I can't imagine it was easy for you," Malcolm blurted out, steering his mind away from his distressing thoughts. "But in the end Phlox did prove the Captain wasn't himself. You shouldn't feel bad, Trip."

The Engineer bit his lip. "The thing is the Capt'n was right, in a way."

"Not under the circumstances," Malcolm said darkly, this time without having to think.

He had pondered the question at length. In times of peace the Captain would have been right – it was morally right to help those unborn children. But these weren't times of peace, and their only priority was to stop the Weapon. A part of him still rebelled at that black-and-white vision of things, but he was doing a good job of quelling it.

"We have a mission," he said out loud, for his own good as well as for Trip's. "It must come first."

"Hell, Malcolm, I know. That's what I told the Capt'n. Why do you think I ended up doin' what I did?" Trip bridged the gap to Shuttlepod One and collapsed with his back against it, letting out a sigh. "I wish things were so simple."

"We must make them simple, if they are not," Malcolm insisted.

Trip shook his head, unconvinced. "There's somethin' the Capt'n said, which is really buggin' me."

Malcolm frowned. "What?" he asked, leaning against the other Shuttlepod, facing the Engineer.

"When he told T'Pol and me he didn't want to abandon that hatchery..." Trip sought Malcolm's gaze. "I was so damn furious. I told him right out that I thought we should torch that Xindi ship and its cargo." In one breath he concluded, "That's when he asked me whether I'd be equally determined to torch a nursery of Xindi primates."

"They weren't primates," Malcolm stubbornly retorted.

Trip smirked. "Yeah. But I keep thinkin' about it, and…" He bit his lip. "Maybe we were more indifferent to the fate of those young ones because they were insectoid. Because we don't consider them much more dignified than… overgrown grasshoppers." He blinked. "They might look different, but they're still a sentient species. You've got to admit, if we'd found primate babies, we'd have reacted differently."

Malcolm felt his gaze harden with cold irritation. Why was Trip trying to knock him off the precarious balance he had painstakingly achieved? Didn't the man realise he had enough difficulties with his own conscience as it was?

"What are you saying: that we are a bunch of bloody racists?" he spat out.

He didn't want to consider that. That's all he needed, to discover the Expanse had turned him into a prejudiced bigot, of all horrible things.

"I guess that's what I'm sayin', yeah," Trip numbly replied, unmindful of Malcolm's temper. "Might not be a nice thought, but I think we've got to ask ourselves that."

He really didn't want to – Malcolm decided. He didn't want to discover he'd lost another piece of that upright Officer which had been his best – his only achievement.

With a last, icy look, he brusquely pushed off Shuttlepod Two and started with purposeful strides towards the Xindi craft. He was going to concentrate on some bloody job – any bloody job – and put all this behind his back, and out of his mind.

Damn it.

Just as abruptly he stopped and turned again. Trip hadn't moved and was looking at him with wary eyes.

"When we agreed to be part of this mission in the Expanse, do you think any of us realised how much we would have to compromise, on an ethical level?" Malcolm croaked out. He knew by the empathy that flooded his friend's face that his shields had totally failed him, but for once he didn't give a damn. Painfully, he added, "If we had found a nursery of primates, we would've had to make the same decision, Trip. And between acting like racists and abandoning some young ones – of whatever species – to their destiny, I don't know what's worse. They are both despicable deeds, not worthy of who or what we think we are."

There. So much for trying to convince himself and Trip that they had done the 'right thing'.

They looked at each other in silence, each seeking in the other's eyes the reassurance that could not be found.

"So where does that leave us?" Trip finally wondered.

The man's voice was as dull as his face was weary. Malcolm passed a hand over his eyes. The answer that was crossing his mind would make use of some rather foul language.

"We are not the same people. We can't afford to be," he muttered at length. With a grimace he added, "It's ironic, isn't it? What made us suspect Captain Archer's sanity, today, was the very quality we all had come to admire in him during these past years: his compassion. Yet now it seems so… out of place. Gives you a measure of how much he has changed, in just a few weeks."

Silence fell, and for a long moment neither of them spoke. It was Trip who eventually did.

"Are you okay?" he asked. "You had your own share of troubles, today."

Malcolm crossed his arms in front of him. Once, not so long ago, he would have given his standard 'I'm fine' reply. But that too had changed. Though, perhaps, it was for the better.

"My Captain treated me like an incompetent idiot and relieved me of duty in front of the Bridge crew; he replaced me with the man my paranoid self thinks wants just that – to take over my position." He could hear his own accent, thick, all spikes. "I joined a mutiny – probably the first and last Reed in history to do so; and now you've got me wondering whether, deep down, I'm not a racist…" With a sarcastic huff, he blurted out, "I feel just wonderful, thank you."

Trip's face twisted in a smirk of sympathy that slowly turned impish. "It must've felt good to overpower the Major, though," he quipped, jerking his head to the side.

"I can't say it didn't," Malcolm agreed, deep in his throat. His mouth curved up, but it was a bitter smile, not reaching his eyes, and only served to make him fall under Trip's scrutiny. Uneasily, he shifted his gaze to the Xindi shuttle, debating once again whether he should really start working. He slowly walked over to it and placed a flat hand to its hull. It felt cold and alien; like his heart.

"I've asked a lot of you today," a quiet voice said behind him.

Malcolm turned, surprised to find Trip there; he hadn't heard the man approach.

"I owe you. Your Navy ancestors may not be happy, but I couldn't have done all that without your help."

Malcolm pursed his lips. "It's not as if you had to twist my arm," he muttered darkly.

Trip's inquisitive eyes prompted him to look away once more; he turned all the way to the vessel. But somehow he had to make a clean breast of this with someone; it was sitting a bit too heavily on his conscience. And who else could he confide in, if not this man?

"In my list, before, I forgot to mention my paltry feelings of resentment and rivalry," he said tautly. "I'm afraid I was more than glad to join your mutiny. I was angry enough that my Navy ancestors didn't even cross my mind."

"You're not gonna tell me you did it for resentment and rivalry," Trip countered. "'Cause I don't believe it for a second. Those feelings may have been there, I grant you that; but you didn't do it for resentment, not for rivalry, and not even for me. You did it because you thought it was right. I know that."

A hand on Malcolm's shoulder gently made him turn.

"You were convinced the Capt'n was endangerin' our mission; just as I was," Trip said firmly, blue eyes clear and steady. His confidence suddenly wavered, though, as he added, "That's why I went as far as betrayin' him."

Malcolm shook his head. "How do you think the Captain would feel now, if we had let him deplete our reserves of antimatter? You didn't betray him, Trip. You saved him from himself."

Good grief, they were like a pair of lame men propping each other up. There was no telling when either – or both of them – might collapse.

Another silence fell.

Well; if he was going to get something done he'd better do it soon. For the umpteenth time, Malcolm shifted his gaze to the alien craft.

"You're not seriously thinkin' of working on that vessel now, are you?" Trip's deadpan voice asked.

Raising a hand to his neck, Malcolm felt the taut muscles there. "I shouldn't waste any time," he mumbled half-heartedly.

"I warn you, the seats aren't very comfortable."

"Look, I know how it feels to toss and turn in bed, Malcolm," Trip added more seriously a second later. "But we should really try and catch some shuteye. We can't afford to accumulate too much tiredness, considerin' what may await us at Azati Prime."

It did make sense; Malcolm had to admit. He lifted his eyebrows in resignation. "Right."

"Come on."

Trip cocked his head towards the door, and they walked in silence out of the launch bay and into the corridor, side by side. As they came to a junction, the Engineer hesitated, and Malcolm shot him a questioning look.

"You go ahead," Trip said, with a glance down the corridor that led to Archer's quarters.

Malcolm's gaze narrowed. "You want to visit the Captain?" he wondered, almost in disbelief.

"The sooner I speak to him the better..."

Malcolm envied this man and his easy way with people. He didn't know how he himself was going to face Archer, after today. He dreaded the moment. He would find it especially difficult to discuss the incident on the Bridge, and really hoped he'd be spared an apology from the Captain, which would embarrass him more than anything else.

But he'd worry about that tomorrow. Right now his neuron connections were failing him.

"Well, good luck," he blurted out, stifling a yawn. "I'd offer you protection, but…" – he hesitated briefly – "I guess you're a good enough shot," he concluded. A bit of humour might help the man, before he went into the lion's den.

"I should've been able to find another way," Trip breathed out, oblivious to the joke. "But when I saw those young Insectoids running all over him, and the Captain treating them as if they were his own…"

Malcolm winced. "Sometimes we have to do things we don't feel good about," he offered. "Sometimes we are stuck with no way out, and we must act, and convince ourselves that what we're about to do – or what we have done – is the right thing."

He knew about that. That had been a chapter of his life which he had hoped concluded; he had hoped that on Enterprise things would be different; but the Expanse was dragging him backwards, to that conscience-numbing way of thinking.

"I doubt this will be the last time we don't like what we must do, before this mission is over," he concluded hoarsely.

"It's for a good purpose," Trip came back, a hint of harshness suddenly marring his voice.

Grief had dawned in his gaze, and Malcolm silently pursed his lips, nodding. He didn't trust himself to add anything to that.

A good purpose.

Back in his quarters, Malcolm stared, this time, at the true image in his mirror.

How far would they go for a good purpose? Would any action be justifiable to save Earth?

The soldier in him might be convinced that their mission came first; but the man knew that sometimes one didn't have all the answers, or the answers were bigger than one's grasp. Things, as Trip had so aptly put it, were indeed not that simple.

From the mirror, the perfect reflection of an imperfect man and officer looked back at him: same expression lines, marking the hours of introvert soul-searching and self-doubt; same lips, more inclined to the straight line of silence than to the wave patterns of conversation; same eyes, of which one could not read even the exact colour. Yes, perhaps the changes in him were too deep to be read on a face.

Tearing his eyes away, Malcolm switched the light off.

Let imperfection be covered in darkness.

THE END

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