"Asteroid field ahead, Subcommander," Travis remarks mildly, glancing at his scanner.

"Can you maneuver to avoid while maintaining approximate course heading?" T'pol inquires.

"It'll add a few hours to our ETA, sir."

"Very well," T'pol remarks, leaving the command chair. "You have the bridge, Lieutenant Reed; I will consult with the captain."

Malcolm acknowledges the science officer's command and takes the command chair with barely a second thought. The crew functions as a well-oiled machine. He is proud to be among their number.

His parents would not be so proud.

The thought comes unexpectedly. His father's face is a black rush of emotion that leaves his knuckles white as he grips the arm of the command chair. A Reed serves where a Reed is needed. His own words, angry and bitter and thrown back in his face.

"No, son. A Reed should serve where Reeds have always served. We are the sons of the sea." His father's voice; cold, scathing, but beginning to heat, beginning to rise in volume as the man's face changed colour, as his temper rose.

What is this if not a new sea? A sea without water? A new horizon to explore?

The words still ring in his ears: the avenue of your cowardice.

"I am *not* a coward!" he'd screamed in fury. "I am an explorer!"

His father smiled bitterly, shook his head, and walked away.

He just … walked away.

Malcolm has not spoken to him since.

He'd spoken a letter home into the recorder, back when he thought the entire ship had been destroyed and that he and Commander Tucker were at death's door. He explained everything. He apologized for words said in anger and forgave words said likewise. He set the record straight.

When the Enterprise rescued them, one of Malcolm's first conscious acts had been to destroy his letters to Earth. He'd taken the data-chips, shot them, and flushed their remains into open space.

He'd almost gone back. The Xindi attack on Earth had brought much of the crew closer together with their families, binding them together into solidarity against the terror of the unknown threat.

Malcolm had met Maddy for lunch in a tiny Marseilles restaurant while trying to decide whether or not to arrange a meeting with his mother and father.

"Father doesn't know what to think," Maddy had said. "I think he'd find everything much easier if you found some way of dying for the sake of humanity."

"Lovely," Malcolm said sourly.

"You're far too complicated alive. At least if you were martyred he could mourn you properly."

"I'm working on it," Malcolm said. "Unfortunately I seem to be rather attached to my life."

"I'm glad," Maddy said. "I shouldn't think you'd be as handsome as a corpse."

"I hope not," Malcolm replied wryly.

And the conversation had turned to other things. Madeleine, bless her, had teased him about the blonde waitress who'd served them their very French food, and in a further attempt to make him blush, asked him needling questions about that charming Starfleet girl who'd called asking questions about his dining preferences.

"Will we be welcoming a new Mrs. Malcolm Reed to our table next Christmas?"

His gaze slips back to where Hoshi sits at her post.

If only …

T'pol returns to the bridge. "Thank you, Lieutenant," she said. "Ensign, adjust course heading to avoid the asteroid field as you suggested."

Malcolm returns to his post and life on the Enterprise bridge continues without noticeable incident.

He'd met Hoshi on the way back from their brief planet leave. Sharing a shuttlepod with Trip meant that out of concern for his friend, Malcolm hadn't spoken much to the other passengers.

"You're not staying on Earth?" he has asked her quietly. He never really expected her to; he'd seen the hesitant child transform to the competent woman and there was no doubt that Hoshi had her space legs. But somehow he'd felt that she might appreciate the acknowledgment, that someone had really noticed the change.

"Captain Archer is still going to need a translator, Expanse or no Expanse," was Hoshi's reply.

"I'm glad," Malcolm said to her.

She looked at him, surprised. "Glad, Lieutenant?"

"I am … proud to serve with you, Ensign." His voice was quiet, his face earnest. He hopes that she knows how much he meant those words.

She flashed him a smile: brief, appreciative. And then she'd turned solicitous inquiry on their friend Commander Tucker; the conversation was over.

Part of him wishes she knew that he appreciates her on a level beyond the professional … that his words mean more than just what they say, that when he says he's proud to serve with her he really means that he yearns to stand by her side as lover or husband or boyfriend or companion or in any capacity that she would have him be …

But mostly he's glad she'll never know. Because he doesn't want to lose those brief flashes of her smile, the ones that feel like they're only for him. He doesn't want to lose the wry sense of humour, the insightful wit, the determined bravery and warm compassion that she brings to life. He doesn't want to lose her as his friend. He's had precious few in his life, and he cherishes them deeply.

His duty is to the ship and her crew, not to his heart. Even if Hoshi learned of the aching emptiness he feels because he loves her, what could she do about it? Discipline. Loyalty. Honour. The watchwords of the Reed code. How can he abandon those, just for the love of a woman, even if the universe were to turn completely upside-down and she were to feel even a shadow of what he does in return? Who would he be without his love of duty, his need to for success, his passion for his work?

He'd be a stranger. And if he abandons himself, he would certainly never be worthy of Hoshi.

Her voice breaks him out of his thoughts as she turns in her chair. "Subcommander," she says, "may I have your permission to leave the Bridge? Crewman Nelson can take over from here but I've got to get a sandwich or something."

It's her second consecutive shift. Malcolm knows, because he's on his second, too.

"Of course, Ensign," is T'pol's calm reply. "Do not push yourself too hard. It would be illogical to deny yourself physical necessities."

"And it's not like anything's happening here," Travis murmurs under his breath. His complaint earns him a smile of commiseration from the linguist and an arched eyebrow from the science officer, although T'pol chooses to let the remark pass.

Intraship communication: "Hey Malcolm, are you busy?"

Malcolm tries to decipher Trip's tone. His voice sounds weary but not entirely without a trace of his ordinarily cheerful disposition … or is that only a result of Malcolm's imagination? It's difficult to tell; he has such worries over Trip's welfare that he might be grasping at straws, hunting for any sign of improvement. "What can I do for you, Commander?"

"I'd like you to come down here and take a look at this torpedo array for me … I think it's on the blink."

Well, that's descriptive, thinks Malcolm, but out of respect for his friend's current emotional state – however well the chief engineer believes himself to be hiding it. "On the blink?"

"I want to make sure it's ready to go. Can you make some time?"

Trip is antsy and hungry for vengeance. He wants to make certain that the weapons are configured for maximum destructive capability. He never let his sister Elizabeth have any trouble from schoolyard bullies … and these Xindi are, to him, equivalent to the biggest bullies on the playground.

"On my way, Commander," Malcolm replies, getting an acknowledging nod from T'pol. "Hold the lift, will you, Ensign?"

Hoshi nods. "Sure."