.
Malcolm knew he couldn't stay in the shower forever. Yet he didn't want to leave. The great, undaunted Malcolm Reed was afraid of a communications officer who didn't like travelling in "tin-cans."
Against his better conscience, he decided to get out. He rationalised this by spending an unwarranted time coming his hair, brushing his teeth and shaving. And anything else he could think of.
When he had exhausted his stay in the bathroom, he looked at himself in the mirror. A perfectly groomed Malcolm stared back at him.
He wanted to smash the mirror. He wanted to let his shield down. He wanted people to figure out who he was; a secret which he had kept so closely guarded all these years so well.
Why couldn't he just be normal? Have a normal life with a normal family and a normal job. Not that he wasn't passionate about his work, but telling people that your vocation was to blow things up raised a few human and Vulcan eyebrows. And he knew that no family was perfect. Yet he yearned for the chance to stop struggling constantly against the Fates.
He reminded himself that life is that struggle, and without it, humans would not truly live. He was sounding like the Captain.
He looked immaculate, if he did say so himself.
He stepped out of the small bathroom and faced Hoshi.
Sometimes struggles are difficult. But it's the victory which justifies it.
And with that, he kissed her. .
Trip scratched Porthos behind the ears as he waited to go with Jon to sickbay. Porthos had eaten too much cheese, and wasn't feeling too well.
"Ya know what Porthos? They aren't feeding you right. You should eat fried catfish. I mean, hey, it's the perfect meal for a dog like you. It's got meat and cats. What more could you ask for?" Trip asked Porthos, whom merely responded with a cocked head.
"I'll ask Chef to fix you some. It's not quite like the real thing, but its good enough," Trip promised Porthos. Porthos proceeded to whine softly.
"Are you saying that Chef can't cook Trip? Because." Jon mocked.
"Sorry. I guess I didn't hear you come in," said Trip. Trip stood up and Porthos started wagging his tail at the prospect of a walk.
Trip started walking out the door, but stopped since Jon was still standing still.
"Umm. Trip, could you do me a favour?" Jon asked.
"Yeah, sure. What do you need?"
"Could you take Porthos to Phlox? I just got a message from Starfleet headquarters. It seems as if Admiral Forrester has requested to speak to me in five minutes."
Trip understood that this was serious. He also understood that Jon wanted to be spared from Phlox's lecture on Porthos's eating habits. Ahh, what an officer must endure for his Captain.
"Sure thing," Trip replied and led Porthos out into the corridor.
Jon could faintly hear Trip promise Porthos catfish and made a mental note to remind Chef to limit Trip's access to the catfish.
He sat down at his desk. When he had first come aboard the Enterprise, he had wanted to bring his mahogany desk from home with him. It was perfect, with drawers for everything you had. He wanted to bring it on a personal note, since the desk had been his fathers. Also, he would have liked to have hung the picture of HMS Enterprise above it. Some sort of poetic justice. It was a good solid desk, unlike these IKEA replicas. He didn't mean any offence to the people who had designed his quarters, whom had insisted that mahogany wouldn't "match" the rest of his room. This desk was also a good, solid desk. However, it was no match against his at home.
Jon glanced up at the clock. He had spent four full minutes thinking about desks. He made another mental note to get a hobby.
The comm. chirped.
"This is Archer."
"Sir, incoming transmission from Starfleet."
"Patch it through to my quarters."
The image of an old man appeared on Jon's computer. Jon tried to think of something flattering to say, like "you look younger" or "you've lost weight", neither of which were true.
"Jon? Good to see you."
"You too sir"
The Admiral turned very grave.
"Now Jon, you know that I've always trusted you?"
Jon rattled his brain to no avail, trying to figure out what Forrester was talking about.
"Yes."
"And that I know you would never abuse your position?"
Jon remembered that he had taken all of the medium-roast Columbian coffee, leaving none for the crew. Surely Starfleet would never get hung up on that. Would they?
"Well, I'm not sure how to take this latest news."
Jon was going to jump in and explain how the other types of coffee just failed to wake him up in the morning, when a crack of smile appeared on Forrester's face.
"I'm sorry Jon. I couldn't help but wind you up." Forrester turned serious again. "Jon, you know that Starfleet has been reconsidering some of its rules?"
Jon knew a lot about this. He had submitted a 50-page report on changes to the current policies.
"The psychiatrists here seem to think that the Enterprise is a prime candidate to test run some of these new rules." Translation: the Enterprise was going to become a guinea pig. Jon wondered what they had done wrong to merit this.
"With all due respect, sir. The Enterprise doesn't have the resources to do this."
"Hear me out." Forrester held up a PADD to read. "'Due to the emotional maturity displayed by the crew of the Enterprise, it is the recommendation of the Psychiatric division of Starfleet that the new fraternization rules be trailed there.'"
Jon was flabbergasted.
Forrester finished with saying, "This doesn't count for you. You're still the Captain. Captains can't be running around chasing young ensigns in skirts. Oh, a new uniform with skirts for the women is being tried on the Missouri. Forrester out"
Jon started wondering about how he could keep Trip from going overboard with these new rules.
Then Jon had an idea. He would announce it to the crew at Valentines Day, which was only a couple of weeks away. And in the mean while, he could laugh at the crewmen that snuck around.
Who said the Captian didn't have a sense of humour? Perhaps not a very funny one, but one nonetheless. .
Malcolm knew he couldn't stay in the shower forever. Yet he didn't want to leave. The great, undaunted Malcolm Reed was afraid of a communications officer who didn't like travelling in "tin-cans."
Against his better conscience, he decided to get out. He rationalised this by spending an unwarranted time coming his hair, brushing his teeth and shaving. And anything else he could think of.
When he had exhausted his stay in the bathroom, he looked at himself in the mirror. A perfectly groomed Malcolm stared back at him.
He wanted to smash the mirror. He wanted to let his shield down. He wanted people to figure out who he was; a secret which he had kept so closely guarded all these years so well.
Why couldn't he just be normal? Have a normal life with a normal family and a normal job. Not that he wasn't passionate about his work, but telling people that your vocation was to blow things up raised a few human and Vulcan eyebrows. And he knew that no family was perfect. Yet he yearned for the chance to stop struggling constantly against the Fates.
He reminded himself that life is that struggle, and without it, humans would not truly live. He was sounding like the Captain.
He looked immaculate, if he did say so himself.
He stepped out of the small bathroom and faced Hoshi.
Sometimes struggles are difficult. But it's the victory which justifies it.
And with that, he kissed her. .
Trip scratched Porthos behind the ears as he waited to go with Jon to sickbay. Porthos had eaten too much cheese, and wasn't feeling too well.
"Ya know what Porthos? They aren't feeding you right. You should eat fried catfish. I mean, hey, it's the perfect meal for a dog like you. It's got meat and cats. What more could you ask for?" Trip asked Porthos, whom merely responded with a cocked head.
"I'll ask Chef to fix you some. It's not quite like the real thing, but its good enough," Trip promised Porthos. Porthos proceeded to whine softly.
"Are you saying that Chef can't cook Trip? Because." Jon mocked.
"Sorry. I guess I didn't hear you come in," said Trip. Trip stood up and Porthos started wagging his tail at the prospect of a walk.
Trip started walking out the door, but stopped since Jon was still standing still.
"Umm. Trip, could you do me a favour?" Jon asked.
"Yeah, sure. What do you need?"
"Could you take Porthos to Phlox? I just got a message from Starfleet headquarters. It seems as if Admiral Forrester has requested to speak to me in five minutes."
Trip understood that this was serious. He also understood that Jon wanted to be spared from Phlox's lecture on Porthos's eating habits. Ahh, what an officer must endure for his Captain.
"Sure thing," Trip replied and led Porthos out into the corridor.
Jon could faintly hear Trip promise Porthos catfish and made a mental note to remind Chef to limit Trip's access to the catfish.
He sat down at his desk. When he had first come aboard the Enterprise, he had wanted to bring his mahogany desk from home with him. It was perfect, with drawers for everything you had. He wanted to bring it on a personal note, since the desk had been his fathers. Also, he would have liked to have hung the picture of HMS Enterprise above it. Some sort of poetic justice. It was a good solid desk, unlike these IKEA replicas. He didn't mean any offence to the people who had designed his quarters, whom had insisted that mahogany wouldn't "match" the rest of his room. This desk was also a good, solid desk. However, it was no match against his at home.
Jon glanced up at the clock. He had spent four full minutes thinking about desks. He made another mental note to get a hobby.
The comm. chirped.
"This is Archer."
"Sir, incoming transmission from Starfleet."
"Patch it through to my quarters."
The image of an old man appeared on Jon's computer. Jon tried to think of something flattering to say, like "you look younger" or "you've lost weight", neither of which were true.
"Jon? Good to see you."
"You too sir"
The Admiral turned very grave.
"Now Jon, you know that I've always trusted you?"
Jon rattled his brain to no avail, trying to figure out what Forrester was talking about.
"Yes."
"And that I know you would never abuse your position?"
Jon remembered that he had taken all of the medium-roast Columbian coffee, leaving none for the crew. Surely Starfleet would never get hung up on that. Would they?
"Well, I'm not sure how to take this latest news."
Jon was going to jump in and explain how the other types of coffee just failed to wake him up in the morning, when a crack of smile appeared on Forrester's face.
"I'm sorry Jon. I couldn't help but wind you up." Forrester turned serious again. "Jon, you know that Starfleet has been reconsidering some of its rules?"
Jon knew a lot about this. He had submitted a 50-page report on changes to the current policies.
"The psychiatrists here seem to think that the Enterprise is a prime candidate to test run some of these new rules." Translation: the Enterprise was going to become a guinea pig. Jon wondered what they had done wrong to merit this.
"With all due respect, sir. The Enterprise doesn't have the resources to do this."
"Hear me out." Forrester held up a PADD to read. "'Due to the emotional maturity displayed by the crew of the Enterprise, it is the recommendation of the Psychiatric division of Starfleet that the new fraternization rules be trailed there.'"
Jon was flabbergasted.
Forrester finished with saying, "This doesn't count for you. You're still the Captain. Captains can't be running around chasing young ensigns in skirts. Oh, a new uniform with skirts for the women is being tried on the Missouri. Forrester out"
Jon started wondering about how he could keep Trip from going overboard with these new rules.
Then Jon had an idea. He would announce it to the crew at Valentines Day, which was only a couple of weeks away. And in the mean while, he could laugh at the crewmen that snuck around.
Who said the Captian didn't have a sense of humour? Perhaps not a very funny one, but one nonetheless. .
