I had been thinking about fathers - Reed's father and Archer's father; of the mark they both left on their sons. This coda to the episode Daedalus has given me an opportunity to delve a little into that.

Beta read by RoaringMice

Twelve-hundred hours.

Malcolm slowly lowered his cup onto a table in the empty Mess hall and cast a half-hearted glance at it: his poor excuse for getting out of his quarters really could do nothing to help him. He'd only swapped his quarters for the Mess but was still alone with his thoughts; not much of an improvement.

He was about to sit down when, lifting his gaze from the cup, his eyes drifted to the porthole, and he hesitated. He'd never much thought of himself as the contemplative type – or rather, if he had to look at stars the poet in him preferred to see them dotting the vault of a sky rather than speeding by in ribbons of light – but tonight he was drawn to the sight. Of their own will, his feet took him to the view, where he leaned with one shoulder on the bulkhead and crossed his arms over his chest. Tonight he could use the somewhat hypnotising view.

He stood there staring for a long time, letting his mind to go blank; the trick worked until, with a treacherous association of images, his brain suddenly conjured up the flash of the Sarajevo going to warp, disappearing in the blinking of an eye, in a stripe of light just like one of the stars out there, taking Emory Erickson and his daughter back to Earth. More precisely, Emory Erickson and his children, for Quinn, Emory's son – though only a cold corpse – was also taking his ride home on that spaceship.

The memory was enough to make his mental palisades come down, and the demon that he had managed to keep at bay behind them immediately ran rampant. Because Quinn's wasn't the only corpse on board the Sarajevo.

I'll take up, you take down.

Malcolm dug the heel of his hands on his eyes, causing different stars to erupt against the backdrop of his eyelids, but the words, now that they had been unleashed, began to bounce around in his mind, and he had no idea how to make them stop. There was no way he could, actually. He'd have to surrender and let the emotions swell within him, running their full, uncomfortable course.

These were the times when he wished he were a Vulcan, well-schooled in the 'repressing of emotions' technique. From an early age he had been taught to look impassive on the outside; but it was the inside that counted, and contrary to what most people thought, his heart knew turmoil just like anyone else's. But no, he was no Vulcan; and he had long ago learnt that for a Human repressing one's emotions wasn't in most cases possible, or even such a good idea. And damn his stiff upbringing, locking everything inside certainly didn't help bear the burden. He should've gone to Trip.

I'll take up, you take down.

With the Expanse behind them, Malcolm had thought they'd been past sending corpses away – whether to the eternal embrace of deep space or back home in a body bag.

Bloody fool.

He clenched his jaw against the memory that haunted him. One moment he was working peacefully in the Armoury with Burrows; the next his man was flat on the ground, his face mauled almost beyond recognition, the breath of life snatched away from him.

I'll take up, you take down.

Damn if it hadn't been the most absurd way to go. The fates of two young men had met – collided would be the more appropriate word – and Burrows was no more; and all because he – Malcolm Reed – had taken up, and ordered the other man to take down.

Something finally broke in Malcolm's chest, and he swallowed past the lump that tightened his throat. What in the bloody hell had he been thinking, taking up? He – the ranking Officer – should have stayed down, on the main floor. And instead he had tossed a coin without thinking, and...

I'll take up, you take down.

At least the men and women who had died in the Expanse had sacrificed their lives for a good cause; but Burrows hadn't gone down in battle, saving his planet, or his ship. His death didn't even have the redeeming crown of glory. Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut, for they were starting to sting. What was he going to tell the man's family? That their son had survived the Expanse only to---

Muscles suddenly tensing, Malcolm pushed off the bulkhead and spun, ready for action, to the presence that his well-honed sixth sense had perceived.

"Leave Malcolm alone, boy."

Adrenaline was freely coursing through Malcolm's veins, but if it served to put a damper on his emotions he was grateful. As he shifted his eyes from the quadruped at his feet to his master, his usual mask was already slipping in place.

"Captain."

He was surprised, actually, that he had not heard them come in, but Archer looked just as surprised about it.

"Porthos," the Captain called, and the dog obediently trotted back to him. A small frown creasing his brow, he added, "Sorry. I didn't think you could be startled."

The Captain was out of uniform and looked tired. The comment had probably wanted to hold some amount of humour – or criticism, for that matter – but neither had come through. Malcolm, all the same, repressed a self-conscious smirk as he explained, "I was lost in thought."

"Yeah."

Lowering on his haunches, Archer stroked his dog's fur. Malcolm watched him warily from his advantageous position, his unease for having been caught unaware mounting with the idea that his Commanding Officer was now crouching at his feet. But fortunately, with a last pat on the beagle's head, the Captain rose.

"Couldn't sleep either," he said quietly.

Malcolm wanted to point out he'd never been that explicit about what had brought him to the Mess at this time; but after all, what else could it be?

"I keep asking myself if I made the right decision," Archer added with a direct look.

Malcolm studied him. The unguarded green gaze that sought his was quite unlike that of the Captain he knew. During the past year Archer had handled with focus and determination circumstances that would have tested anybody's command skills. And even today, with Erickson, he'd taken things in stride and appeared to have no doubts as to what course of action to take. Now he seemed a confused man. Malcolm briefly wondered how many times, during the mission in the Expanse, in the privacy of his quarters Archer had discarded his 'invincible hero' disguise and brooded over his command decisions, torn and with no one to turn to. He had shut everyone out, then; now though, he seemed in a different frame of mind.

"Captain?" he stuttered, unsure of what was expected of him.

"I put my crew in danger to help a man who had lied to me," Archer croaked out.

Malcolm's emotional self winced inwardly, even as his logical counterpart reasoned, "It was a calculated risk, Sir."

"Oh, come off it, Lieutenant," Archer scoffed. "Don't tell me that's what you thought when I ordered the ship to remain in the Barrens. Even Trip gave me a mouthful."

Malcolm straightened his posture, responding to the Lieutenant bit but also to the harsh tone. If truth be told, he had cursed the man when he'd given them that order. Burrows had died before his eyes, and calculated risk or not, Malcolm would've rather they'd turned the ship back and got the hell out of that region of space.

"A man had died in mysterious circumstances," he forced out, an implied admission of guilt, "and... Well, if truth be told I did think it would be wiser to leave."

"I'm sure you didn't put it quite that politely in the privacy of your thoughts," Archer commented with another sarcastic huff. Pinching his nose, he quickly added, in a softer voice, "I'm sorry, Malcolm. I'm bad company tonight."

He bent down to get comfort from his quadruped friend and Porthos didn't fail him: rising on his hind legs, the beagle put the front paws on his master's thigh and licked the hand that reached out to him.

When Archer lifted again, they looked at each other in silence for a moment. Two men so different and yet so damn alike – Malcolm mused. Because the thing they both feared the most was losing one of the eighty-odd lives they'd been entrusted with, as Captain and Armoury Officer of this ship. And they had to live with the idea that, however exploratory, their mission was constantly putting those lives at risk.

"Captain…" he said tentatively. "It's not as if I – or Trip, for that matter – don't understand why you gave that order: it was to try and save a man's life."

"The life of someone I had grown up with: the son of a friend. I can't help wondering if I would've done the same for a perfect stranger."

Yes. That was the crux of the matter, wasn't it; the demon that was keeping the Captain awake. If only his own demon was so easy to chase… "Sir," Malcolm said, this time without hesitation, "I can't recall a single circumstance when you turned your back on someone in need, no matter if a friend or not, and left them to die, if there was a chance to help them."

As he spoke, he had a flashback of the Illyrians Archer had ordered attacked and robbed of their warp core, and left stranded. He couldn't keep the sudden realisation off his face, and there it must have stayed long enough for Archer to read, for he croaked out, "Really?" green eyes growing pained.

Malcolm wasn't particularly keen on discussing their mission in the Expanse, especially with his C.O., but to avoid the issue now would seem too contrived.

He looked away and pursed his lips, gathering his thoughts. "That time…"

Hell, he'd been so mad; bloody furious. But now that he looked back on things, he was realising he hadn't been so mad at Archer as at the impossible circumstances they were having to face; at having to accept that to carry out their mission they'd have to do things that went against their ethics.

"Captain, I know you'd never do anything like that in times of peace," he finally said, daring a look back. "We had to do what we did. Let's hope those people are still alive and well," he added under his breath.

Archer heaved a deep sigh. His gaze bore into Malcolm's eyes for a moment, openly showing the clouds in it; then shifted to the table where the lonely cup was standing. "I've kept you from your... tea, is it?"

Malcolm turned to cast a glance at his abandoned cup. "It's okay, Sir," he muttered. "To be honest it was only an excuse to get out of my quarters." He felt his mouth turn in a downward grimace. "I wanted to escape my thoughts, but of course, as you must know, sometimes there is no way one can."

Usually he'd have kept that to himself even under torture; but somehow it had slipped out. Perhaps knowing that he wasn't the only one struggling with his conscience had lowered his usually high guard.

"Wait here."

Archer turned and started to pick his way around the tables towards his private Mess. "Stay, Porthos," he cast over his shoulder to the dog, which had got ready to follow him.

He disappeared, and Malcolm was left looking into the expectant eyes of a beagle. Blimey. What was one supposed to do with his C.O.'s pet? He was beginning to feel stupid – uneasy even with a bloody dog! – when Archer reappeared with a bottle and two tumblers.

Without a word, the Captain set them on the table, pushing the cup of cold tea out of the way; then he slid into a chair and poured two shots. Malcolm hesitated. Not even the Expanse had changed his reluctance to fraternise with superior officers.

Archer pushed a tumbler towards him with a challenging look. "If you're trying to take your mind off something, this is a lot better than tea."

Malcolm returned a tight-lipped smile. "Sir, I may well be off-duty but… I'm not sure you'd want a tipsy Armoury Officer," he suggested wryly.

"You mean to tell me a couple of drinks are going to affect you that badly?" Archer countered likewise. "Suit yourself. I'm not gonna order you." He reached for his glass and emptied it in one go. Then he scooped up Porthos and placed him on his lap.

Malcolm watched him, pulled by contrasting desires. He wanted to leave yet something kept him there. Finally, feeling he had to make a move, he lowered himself into a seat. He eyed the tumbler for a moment; then reached for it and took a sip. Maybe the Expanse had changed something after all. They had gone through thick and thin together, and even though he still felt the chain of command very deeply, there was this new awareness within him that something special now bonded them all, men and women of the Enterprise, no matter what the rank – maybe the fact that they were survivors.

"Emory to me was... like a second father," Archer began easily, eyes on Porthos – who seemed to be enjoying the attention – as he stroked his fur. "He was always around. He was a dreamer, like my real father, and when I wasn't chasing Quinn and Danica around with a toy pistol, I was soaking up every word of their countless discussions."

"Discussions?" Malcolm breathed out with a frown, refocusing from a stray image of a much younger himself chasing Madeline around the yard of their house.

"Warp Drive versus Teletransportation."

"Right." Another picture formed in Malcolm's mind; that of a household where, unlike his own, silence must have seldom spread its dampening veil. "It must have been a stimulating atmosphere for a child," he wondered.

Archer's eyebrows lifted. "You better believe it. But don't fool yourself. Growing up with such a father was no joke. He could be a very demanding person."

Malcolm, who knew all about demanding fathers, took another sip to keep the memories at bay. As it was, Archer frustrated his efforts.

"The only time I spoke to your father he didn't impress me as the easy type either," he said with a frown.

Repressing a wince, Malcolm muttered, "Unbending would pretty well describe him, Sir."

Archer gave a low chuckle. He reached for the bottle and refilled his glass, topping up Malcolm's right after.

"I wanted him to be proud of me," the Captain said a moment later, a touch of wistfulness in his voice. "I knew I could never be like him but neither could I be…" – he shrugged – "ordinary. Yet he never once told me what I should do in life. He was my hero."

Malcolm averted his gaze. It was painful to see the worship on Archer's face while inside him the embers of age-old contrasts had been rekindled. There was a time when he'd considered his own father a hero, but it was so long ago he could not recall the feeling. When he thought of Reed Senior, only their divergences flashed vividly in his mind, and each time they renewed an aching in his chest.

"Oh, damn, I'm sorry, Malcolm."

Warily, Malcolm met Archer's gaze. Empathy warmed the green eyes.

"I was forgetting you told me your father wanted you to join the Navy, follow the family tradition," the Captain expounded. "It can't have been easy for you."

For you? Malcolm had been made to feel like a traitor to his ancestors, like his father had been the only offended party, and that only his feelings had counted; and now someone was recognising… was hinting…

He blinked, fumbling for words. "It was difficult," he blurted out, coaxed into the admission by Archer's unspoken support.

He'd always carry the scars. But then again, they both would. Yeah, his old man would never really get over the fact that his son had chosen a different life. Malcolm reached for the tumbler and empied it in one go, feeling the liquor burn a path down his throat. He should have stuck to tea. Nothing like a bit of alcohol to loosen one's tongue, damn it. But he didn't stop Archer from refilling his glass.

They were silent for a moment.

"I undoubtedly idolised my father because he died way too early," Archer resumed, voice thick with something.

They both should have stuck to tea – Malcolm mused. All these confidences couldn't lead to anything good. They were still Captain and Lieutenant, for heaven's sake, and a Lieutenant wasn't supposed to be his Captain's confidant.

"His illness… dying before he could see his engine fly…" Archer winced. "Maybe if he hadn't died so young – or when I was so young," he went on, oblivious to Malcolm's thoughts, "we would have ended up clashing, like most fathers and sons, at a certain point in life."

That certain point in life had come pretty soon for himself – Malcolm mused grimly: as soon as the onset of his allergies, the discovery of his aqua-phobia, the evidence of his un-Reed-like constitution.

"I couldn't leave Quinn behind, locked in that signal," Archer said hoarsely, seeking Malcolm's eyes. "Even if I had to keep Enterprise in the Barrens and place my people at risk, I just couldn't. I am who I am also thanks to Emory. He was my second father, after my real one died," he repeated. "And Quinn was like a brother." He downed another shot.

Malcolm tightened the grip around his glass, feeling a knot of anger form in his gut. "I understand that, Sir," he said in a voice that came out rather cutting. "But because of Erickson's lies, an innocent man has died. Your second father has only himself to blame for Quinn's death, but Burrows's father will be grieving a loss that, with all due respect, makes no bloody sense."

Emptying his glass, Malcolm returned it to the table before turning his gaze to the deck plating. Damn if he shouldn't have stuck to tea.

He should apologise, say the ritual 'That was out of line'; yet something rebelled in him even as he thought that, and his voice still held that edge as he added, "I'm sorry, Sir, but my personal demon tonight, is the memory of Burrows's distorted face, and the knowledge that I must write to his parents and I don't know what the hell to tell them." He scrunched his eyes closed for a brief moment, willing the image to disappear. "That boy might still be alive had we been alerted to the real reasons for our mission, and to its dangers." And had you not chosen up, his conscience added. "You might think of Erickson as a father, but he certainly didn't treat you like a son."

As he rode the long moment of silence that followed that outburst, Malcolm wished the Captain would get on with it and reprimand him for his outspokenness. He didn't regret his words, they were the truth, but he knew he deserved a slap on the wrist, so let it come. He'd much prefer that to this unnatural lack of response.

"I can't undo Burrows's death, Malcolm," Archer eventually said, his heart – a pained heart – in the words. "I wish to hell I could, but I can't. As for Erickson... He's been paying ever since that transport, years ago, went awry and he sacrificed his son to his greed for glory. Yeah, he didn't tell me the truth; but he was gambling, and a gambler must keep a poker face. He's lost everything, though, even his daughter now. And I can't imagine a worse punishment than that."

The weariness in his voice made Malcolm dare a glance, and he suddenly felt sorry for the man. What had happened wasn't his fault after all; and once they'd realised exactly why they were out there in the Barrens, Archer couldn't really have been expected to act any differently from the way he had.

"I am sorry, Sir," Malcolm repeated in a much different voice.

"Yeah."

There was another beat of silence.

Malcolm leaned back in his chair. "I… was out of line, Captain," he was finally able to say. He cleared his throat and added in mild wit, "To my partial excuse, you are the one who's brought out the Whisky and kept filling my glass. I think next time you'd better let me keep to non-alcoholic beverages."

Archer let out a huff. "And why, Lieutenant? Some things need to be said, so that you can get them out of your system. I doubt we'd have had this conversation over a cup of tea."

"True enough."

That was when Porthos yawned widely, letting out a soft yelp.

"Someone here is wiser than we are," Archer said with a soft chuckle. He eased the beagle onto the ground. "All right, boy. I get the message." Getting up, he gathered the bottle and glasses.

Malcolm got to his feet as well, awkwardly standing aside. "Sir, I hope you know…" He hesitated, and the green eyes came up to him, questioningly. "I didn't mean to criticise your actions. I've had so much on my mind, and…"

"That does you honour, Lieutenant. You'd be rather unfeeling if you didn't."

"Captain…" Malcolm passed a hand through his short hair. "When that anomaly appeared in the Armoury… I made a command decision, spur of the moment. I went to check the upper level, and ordered Burrows to check the lower one. If only I had taken down…"

Archer pursed his lips. "You couldn't know, Malcolm," he stressed. "It was a chancy thing. Don't let it haunt you." He looked away, out of the porthole, as he quietly added, "Especially, don't let it undermine your self-esteem. You're a fine Officer."

With that, he took the Whisky and tumblers back to his private Mess, followed by his trusted beagle. Malcolm waited for him; and they walked at a comfortable pace towards the turbo-lift. At the Captain's quarters Archer turned. "Thank you for seeing us safely home," he said with a teasing half-smile.

Malcolm suddenly realised he'd again been so deep in thought that he had absent-mindedly followed him all the way to E deck. "Right," he stuttered, feeling a blush creep up. "Good night, Captain." And then, as Archer took the first step inside his room, he said what he'd been mulling all along. "Your father would be proud of you, if he could see you, Sir."

Archer turned, green eyes narrowing. "Yes, he would be," he agreed. "Surely yours must be too."

That sent the usual stab of pain through Malcolm's chest. "I'm not so certain about that." Damn the Whisky.

"Unbending doesn't mean blind, Malcolm. Or unintelligent." Archer shook his head. "Your father is well aware of what you have accomplished. He may still regret you not joining the Navy, and be reluctant to show his feelings to you, but believe me, he's damn proud of his son. We both did our fathers proud." He smiled knowingly. "Good night, Lieutenant. Get some sleep and metabolise all that alcohol. I need my Armoury Officer sharp."

The door swished closed, leaving Malcolm to look dumbly at a grey panel. He stared at it for a moment longer; then turned on his heels and shuffled back towards the lift. The big weight that had been sitting in the middle of his chest was still there, but seemed a little less heavy; he wondered if it had really been the Whisky or the conversation. Probably both.

Archer's words had bored a tunnel right to his heart, though. Was it possible that the old man was really proud of him? The only sure thing was that Stuart Reed would be too proud to admit it. But then again, that kind of pride wasn't alien to his own nature either.

Fathers and sons...

A face, though clouded in the mist of unknown features, pierced his thoughts. What had Burrows's father thought of his son's career? Had he shared the boy's dreams, or cursed the day he had enrolled in Starfleet? He must be cursing it now. But surely the man must know… And if he didn't, he must be made to know, he and his wife must be made to know how proud they should be of their son. That's all he could do, to temper a family's grief.

With a sigh, Malcolm straightened his shoulders and quickened his pace.

THE END

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