TWO

Captain Archer was pacing his customary slow line across the deck and looking at them oddly as Hoshi and Malcolm loped into the shuttlebay - ten minutes later than promised, and in a less than professional state.

No make-up today, Hoshi? Is this because you've already got your man? the captain teased; rather tolerantly, Hoshi thought, but also a little impertinently, all things considered. She set her au naturel lips into a thin line like a letterbox, and was careful to keep her head down. She wasn't about to inform her captain that she had for a brief while had lipstick on - but more had ended life on Malcolm's mouth than her own, and she hadn't seen the point in repeating the attempt.

No, Captain, it's because I ran out of time. She nodded curtly and stalked past Archer with her head still down to hide her rising blush, her padded jacket pendulumning from her hand with a slow swishing sound.

Archer laughed as she slammed past like a spinning top, and flung her jacket, PADD, and a water-bottle through the gullwing and into the cool interior of the open shuttlepod. Lover's tiff, Malcolm? she heard the captain chortle, behind her. As she hooked one leg over the pod's side Hoshi strained her ears to pick out Malcolm's reply, quietly enjoying the sound of her husband shuffling his feet.

Not exactly, sir, she heard him explain, a little churlishly. The bunk collapsed.

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Those on duty when the sensors first isolated this one oasis of life had dubbed the planet Tut, a half-slighting reference to King Tutankhamun and his magnificent death mask. The atmosphere encircled the turquoise planet in a soft gold shroud, but below it, tiny smudges of land like milk quartz and obsidian drifted by. Apparently T'Pol had failed to understand the reference until Trip rooted out an old photograph of himself at a fancy dress party, complete with paper mache gold mask and brown body paint, and silently, Hoshi approved of the name. It seemed so much more personal than a code number, and Planet Tut mirrored the unflawed colour of the great historical treasure to the last detail.

Since boarding none of the three had spoken, Malcolm piloting a little erratically and Hoshi seated with the captain at the rear of the shuttlepod. She had felt her captain's eyes stroll from her to her significant other and back again, and although he had the good grace to restrain his amusement, she could sense it bubbling softly beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to push forward. Hoshi was relieved when Tut swooped into view through the viewport, and she seized the neutral subject matter eagerly.

Looks warm down there, she said, casually.

Then it's just as well I didn't bring Trip, Archer replied, letting himself smile at last. Hoshi knew he wasn't grinning merely at the commander. He'd never have made much of an Egyptian, no matter how good he is with architecture. I'm sure he could build a pyramid but he hates deserts.

Hoshi couldn't help but chuckle at the unexpected mental image of Trip in a loincloth. She would have to employ her feminine wiles when they returned to Enterprise and sweet-talk that photo from him. It would, quite literally, be worth the man's weight in gold.

I've located a landing site, Captain, Malcolm ventured crisply from the pilot's seat. Hoshi could hear a mild species of excitement concealed in the stoic tone, but it was a trick only she knew and a note none but she would hear. To most his professional manner hadn't changed, but she could tell; what had once been acerbity and distance was now more often gentle irony or grimly-held duty.

It occurred to her now, with only a little surprise, that this one of many changes had first come to her attention when she and Malcolm returned to Enterprise after the mission that had thrown them both together. For some time now she had assumed that before that day she hadn't been listening carefully enough to his pleasant, placid voice or watching his perpetually nervous face to see the signs, to notice Malcolm hidden away beneath the mask of Lieutenant Reed, but now and then, she wondered. She wondered if maybe he had changed in the time she had known him. On that tense and boisterous reception six months ago he had stood to perfect attention despite the scratches and bruises that would later scar marbling his back, his head held high although his neck was cramped from that tiny holding cell, his face a passive, unresponsive blank slate . . . but instead of the dreamy half-smile she had come to expect from him in the eighteen months prior to that fated mission, his eyes downcast and shy, he had been edgy, somehow, buzzing, an electrical current pulsing beneath the surface, and when she hooked her arm in his to steady him, the muscle had been hard and tensed as crystalline rock.

And he certainly hadn't been shy last night.

Tut grew larger through the tinted glass in a swarm of lapis and gold as the shuttlepod banked, and with a fiendish lack of caution Malcolm brought them in to land.

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Six months ago, a week after the escape through the waterfall

She has rarely visited the armoury before tonight, but this is a detail she fails to remember until she is standing at the open doorway, peering into the darkness inside. She has a vague recollection, the faint certainty that she must have visited at least once or twice during her time aboard Enterprise - she has an idea of what the place looks like - but she doesn't remember when or why that may have been.

Of course. Target practice. It has been so long since she last came here for personal tuition that for a moment it seems as if she has never done so at all. She is an acceptable shot, these days, but her rising proficiency isn't the reason she quit - no, not the reason at all.

As she ventures inside the darkened armoury, her eyes are drawn to a globe of pale light skating across the black angles of a work bench. Shadows rear and subside against that pearlescent aqua radiance as a figure moves across it and back again, casting monstrous forms on the walls, working on something that is blocked from her line of sight by his body. She creeps towards this apparition wishing she was as light on her feet as some she knows, and in an instant too sudden for her prey to anticipate, she has wound her arms around his chest, planted a kiss on his cheek, and rested her chin on his shoulder. Now two monsters play across the walls in unison.

You're late. Half-past, you said. What time do you call this? She is speaking to his ear and the back of his neck, feathering the fine dark hairs there with her breath.

I call it time I stopped planning my life around you. Hand me that wire, will you?

She reaches down into the circle of light from his desk lamp an plucks a coil of 3mm uncoated wire from the debris there, handing it to him silently. He takes it and sets about snipping it into finger-length segments with a pair of pliers. The tiny curve of his brow she can see from this angle is furrowed with concentration, but she can tell it's feigned, artificial. There is a twinkle to his voice, a fondness, and she knows that whatever intensity he had towards the project before she arrived is now long gone.

Why is it so dark in here? she asks, candidly.

Still he doesn't turn. Because I don't want anybody to know we're here, my dear Ensign. I knew you were bound to turn up sooner or later. Can't keep away from me.

She wallops him lightly between the shoulder blades, and is instantly mortified at the very real pain on his face and the way he draws in air through his teeth, his spine rigid and bolting straight as a mast at the impact.

I'm sorry. She wishes she sounded other than she does; with her young voice those two words are hollow. She places her open palms at the nape of his neck, where she knows there are no wounds, and gently rubs away the tense knots there. I forgot. How are - were - you healing up?

I was doing just fine. It looks like they'll scar, though. The doctor says that some of the gashes were too deep to grow over completely, and it was almost twenty-four hours before they got medical attention. The sparkle in his tone slips away like water from an eggshell, evaporating without a trace. The wire has fallen forgotten to the bench.

She tightens her grip on his shoulders and swings him around to face her, and his brilliant eyes knock her breath back down her throat. She doesn't know how to decipher what she sees there; she only knows that it is deep as the worst of those wounds.

That's okay with me, she assures him, with a grin and a nudge. They'll make you look like a pirate.

He raises a smile at that; his sly, half-tilt, self-conscious little smile that reveals a flash of pointed white teeth. Long John Malcolm. I like that. Do I get a parrot as well?

You get a linguist. Why would you want a parrot that can only repeat things when you could have a translator that can tell you what it meant?

That's an excellent point. All right, then. Say something foreign. It doesn't have to be alien, just - not English. Pick a language.

She brings her nose to his, eskimo kisses stolen in ice light, and whispers the first thing to enter her head. With his unique scent so overwhelmingly in her senses and his long eyelashes flickering as her nose tickles his, nothing will come at all for a moment slow as setting tar. Je t'aime, she obliges.

The little furrow deepens in his forehead and for an instant he almost rears back from her, eyes staring. Uncomprehending.

Je ne c'est pas pourquoi, she continues. But I'm getting there.

He has one eye on the door as they kiss, but she doesn't mind. It is his nature to keep secrets, and it is his neck on the line if they are discovered. The deserted armoury so late at night is one of the few places they can meet and be free; when they leave for the mess hall, it will be as Lieutenant and Ensign, separate entities with nothing between them but banter and thin air. She is starting to hate regulations; he is beginning to despise them.

This is wrong. He slumps back against the bench, a silhouette framed by a blue halo, and she feels the tension in his muscles slacken.

I thought we talked about this. I know it's not strictly allowed . . .

Try

. . . but what harm are we doing to anyone? Don't get cold feet on me. Please. She snuggles closer, and draws a low moan from his throat.

That's not what I meant. Hoshi . . . I'm not getting cold feet. My feet have never been warmer, in point of fact. I mean it's wrong that we have to pretend. That we have to hide. Maybe it's time I took one of those risks you're always telling me about. If I talk to the captain . . .

She places her palms either side of his face and holds him steady. Malcolm, you don't have to do this to impress me. Okay? Just take one day at a time. Don't blow your career.

He removes her hands, curling the fingers back under as he lowers them, and gives them back to her. I am taking one day at a time. Right now I'm thinking of the next few minutes, and . . . and walking out that door like all we've been doing in here is talking target practice. And I don't think I can do it. I don't want to do it.

When their eyes meet, at last, she realises that his decision is all but made. The chance of changing that now is rapidly shrinking, growing dimmer with every passing second. She feels his fingers twine gently into hers, leading her to the door. Whatever new gadget she has caught him working on is forgotten.

When they leave the armoury, they leave as Malcolm and Hoshi; they leave hand in hand.

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The warmth and the moist, misty humidity of Planet Tut only reinforced the impression of Egypt; but this was no desert. The spot where Malcolm chose to land opened onto muggy, overgrown jungle ground, and everywhere the air seethed with clinging drifts of gold vapour like oiled steam.

Malcolm led the way, and directed Hoshi to walk behind him with the captain bringing up the rear. No-one objected; it was second nature to them after so many away-missions, and after being told more times than they could count or remember that security must always be first in the line of fire.

As she brushed fronds of greenish-blue vegetation from her path and watched Malcolm's back as he walked, her mind couldn't help but wander. She expected the captain to begin some kind of mission briefing, some idea of why they were here, but nothing came. That, in itself, was merely unusual; but he said nothing at all, and that was downright odd.

I'm starting to think Ensign Cutler would have been a better choice for this trip, she muttered, as a small centipede-like creature scuttled across her path. It'd probably be a good idea to work out what it is before trying to communicate with it.

Just keep going, Hoshi, Archer responded, with a faint smile of amusement. I'm sure there'll be something to see.

Ahead of her, Malcolm chuckled, and didn't turn around. She made a mental note to thank' him for his overwhelming support when they got back to the ship - maybe something along the lines of fixing his shower to COLD. She was sure Trip would help if he asked him nicely. Right after he fixed the bed.

They halted at a fork in the track they followed - two clear paths were trodden down, trampled by feet into tramlines made for easy travel. So there were people here, after all. Or at least, there had been.

Looks like we split up. Try and gather as much data as we can and get you two lovebirds back to the ship and back to your honeymoon. Malcolm, you take the left, I'll take the right. Hoshi, stay here, keep your comm open and wait to hear from us.

Aren't you going to tell us what it is we're looking for, sir? Malcolm asked, placidly. He was calmly clicking the energy cell of his phase pistol into place as he spoke. All right - so maybe she wouldn't fix his shower, after all.

If I could, I would. T'Pol's scans showed an indeterminate number of biosigns concentrated in this area. She also found residual energy signatures, but they were off the chart. I can't say I'll forget this morning in a hurry - it's not often you see T'Pol flustered.

Hoshi nodded, and contained a tiny smile; T'Pol had looked pretty flustered the night before when she caught the bouquet. So it's basically a case of looking for something that moves and not shooting it, Hoshi interceded. Think you can manage that, Mr. Reed?

I'll do my best, Mrs. Reed.

Archer looked from one to the other a moment, obviously enjoying the banter, his helmet brow creased into three lines like a crow's foot. I wouldn't worry, Hoshi. It's not like he hits anything when he does shoot.

Malcolm remained perfectly demure throughout, but the soft glint in his lowered eyes reminded her to be cautious when taking her own shower tonight.

Take care, you, she said, on a breath, as Malcolm secured his phase pistol and looked up.

And take care, you, he replied, apparently without emotion . . . but she knew better. She wanted to take that tiny step forward, and lay a kiss right on his cheek where the muscles had tightened; but again, with the captain watching, she knew better.

She watched until both had vanished from view, one to her left and the other to her right; then, with a sigh, she sank down on a fallen tree root, her communicator open on her knee, and waited.

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She has been asked - no, asked is too polite a word, she has been ordered - to wait in the mess hall, but if she knows one thing about herself, it is that no boyfriend of hers is going to order her around. Technically this boyfriend has the advantage, being her working superior . . . being a lieutenant. But that doesn't change her basic nature; it doesn't change the fact that as he gives her that quiet direction with a touch of his hand briefly on hers and heads away from her to the captain's ready room, she is worried sick.

He hasn't found the courage to tell her yet, but he has received a video letter that changes everything. Or maybe it changes nothing. Maybe this has been on the cards all along, hiding behind his stare. He is too afraid to tell her, too ashamed, but she knows anyway. She overheard as she came to his quarters last night to meet him for dinner, not meaning to break his shell of privacy, not meaning for her sensitive ears to take in things not intended for them, but she heard, and she knows how badly it has affected him. His sister Madeline has just been promoted to professor of archaeology and in the space of that one very busy month has got herself engaged - to a Navy man, no less. His father reported the news under a guise of wistful celebration, but she knows how much more was left unsaid, branded between the lines in invisible ink.

Invisible ink is drawn out by heat. Drawn out like poison from a wound. Her darling ambitious lieutenant is going into the fire.

She waits at the back of the bridge, making a play of tying her boot laces whenever another crewmember passes her. It is the night shift, and the bridge is all but empty.

She can hear voices inside, but no words, and maybe that's just as well. Even so her restless mind insists on filling in the blanks, and that is far from desirable. She knows how it will start. Only time can tell how it will end.

A patchwork of long minutes passes, like water chasing bubbles down a drain. The water sucks quickly away and yet the scuds of foam seem to linger endlessly, swirling in a circular vortex that takes forever to leave. This is like that, units of sixty seconds stitched together to make a chain, one bright and elusive as their overheard voices drop, the next grey and painful as they raise again. It's a joke, really, that she should be so nervous - her darling ambitious lieutenant has stormed into enemy ships, armed and ready, he has withstood mental battles of will with beings too alien for any of them to comprehend, and here she is, twisted into a complex labyrinth of knots over his discussing something with the captain.

Correction; he is discussing her with the captain.

At last, the voices fall completely silent. There is no thunderous catalyst, no yelled order for the matter to drop . . . both murmurs of muffled sound through the door simply drift away. They have nothing more to exchange. The doors glide open and he emerges, his back a little stiff and his shoulders like rock; but his head is held high, and she knows that everything is going to be all right.

Come along, Ensign. I believe we've made a dinner date.

He heads for the turbolift with that artificially snooty invitation left for effect, and she follows him with a shake of her head and a vague memory of being kissed in the dark.