Disclaimer: I do not own the Star Trek Universe or characters. I am making no financial gain from this story.
No spoilers
Seascape
Rolling gray barriers of water capped by ruffles of white froth ran relentlessly onto the beach. His nostrils flared at the salt tang mixed with the bitter stench of decaying seaweed: kelp and bladderwrack.
Malcolm sighed and looked down at his right hand, sifting through the fine shell fragments, the gray sand. Insects scuttled through the grains, struggling up and down through the shifting ground. He shifted to rest on his right side and gazed up again at the tireless breakers. Squabbling gulls fought briefly over his head then took their argument elsewhere.
The chill brought a shiver. He would need to abandon his post soon. Return to the concern and solicitude of others. He should not have been seduced by the earlier false warmth and had the foresight to bring more layers to wear.
Solitude. What he needed now. What he would relinquish only with reluctance.
And then it was broken.
A crunching sounded behind him, boots crushing shells and snapping seaweed pockets.
He sighed again. He had no energy to spare for anything, and certainly none at all for people.
The approaching footsteps halted, close to him. He was conscious of a looming presence, but remained still. He knew who it would be.
He was correct. A gruff voice said, "I brought a jumper. Thought you'd be cold."
Malcolm glanced down at the sand, his fingers endlessly digging through the coarse mix, multicolored at this close view. He couldn't bring himself to answer. He did what he could. A slight shrug. An acknowledgement, but nothing more.
His father lowered himself clumsily besides him, grunting at the effort. He had chosen to sit at Malcolm's right side, so he was now in his field of view. A cream Arran sweater was clutched in his hands. He held it out to his son, added an impatient flick.
Malcolm reached out with his left hand and took the garment, slinging it over his left shoulder but otherwise not adjusting his position. He managed a grunt of thanks.
His father turned to face the sea, sitting with his knees drawn up and his arms wrapped around them. He sniffed at the air and observed the clouds with a keen weatherwise eye.
"Wind's getting up," he commented. "It'll be stormy later."
Malcolm didn't doubt it.
They sat in silence.
The older man spoke again. "Your mother wants to know if you'll be coming in for lunch."
"I don't know." The words felt strange in his mouth after the hours of mute reflection. "Tell her I'll get something myself, would you?"
"I will, but you know how she likes to look after you."
Malcolm nodded. She liked to fuss. Made her feel useful.
Some minutes passed, then Malcolm's father said quietly, almost to himself, "I used to spend a lot of time here too. After that emergency action in Polynesia." He tipped his head in Malcolm's direction. "You won't remember. You were only a tiny baby then." He gave a small smile of recollection.
Malcolm stopped his trawling through the sand. His father never talked about the past. Malcolm had a vague idea of what he had done, where he'd been, from the occasional comment of his father's, from what visitors said, but it wasn't polite to ask questions. Just not done.
He lifted his eyes questioningly to his father.
"It was hard on your mother. Hard all round."
Their eyes met. Gray to gray. A common wordless understanding: duty, loss, weariness, terror, compromise. All of that and more.
His father cleared his throat. "I don't know what it's like, out there." He jerked his head skywards. "No picnic, I suppose." He laboriously pulled himself to his feet. He reached out a hesitant hand and grasped Malcolm on his shoulder.
Malcolm, surprised at the touch, glanced up at him.
"I'm proud of you, son." A quick squeeze, then he turned to make a determined retreat back to the warm comfort of the cottage.
Malcolm shivered. He pulled the sweater on.
He watched the gray sea once more.
End