Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or Universe of Star Trek. I am making no financial gain from this story.

A/N: This is the sequel to 'Breakfast' and is similar in tone to that. There is a companion piece - 'Operation Bamboozle' - Parts 1 and 2 of which take place between the events of 'Breakfast' and 'Consequences'. However, if 'Operation Bamboozle' isn't to your taste, you can omit it without detracting from this story. Part 3 of 'Operation Bamboozle' will deal with what happens after 'Consequences'. :-)

Consequences

Malcolm Reed stood outside the Captain's private dining room in some degree of disbelief. Oh, he knew it existed all right. He just found it impossible to credit that he was there again, and so soon, invited for breakfast with the Captain for the second time in a little over a week.

When he had received that innocent-seeming mail message from the Captain, the icon winking on his screen, he had barely thought twice before opening it. He had still been on cloud nine.

He had believed his earlier breakfast with the Captain had been a triumph, a crowning glory to his list of tactical achievements. It had slightly bothered him when he had realized that he valued it almost as highly as his more concrete successes - saving a comrade, the ship or finding the target. That really shouldn't be the case. He should put things in perspective. But what he knew he should do, and what he actually felt like, hadn't matched up.

Never mind, he had shrugged off the discontinuity and had basked in the warm glow of accomplishment.

Malcolm had never managed to make small talk with the Captain quite that well before. He knew he could do it now, and that meant he could build on it again in future. It had required much preparation and had not been easy to carry out, but he had done it. Perhaps he was now turning into a well-rounded officer?

'About bloody time,' he had thought darkly.

All was well and he could continue with his more usual duties and preoccupations.

Or so he had thought.

The message contents had hit him like a thunderbolt. The Captain had in most cordial terms invited him to breakfast once more, and soon. Malcolm had stared in incredulity at the letters dancing before his eyes, closed the message and opened it again. Not surprisingly, it still said the same thing.

Thankfully, he had been in his quarters at the time so no one had heard the volcano of expletives. He liked to cultivate the image of cool professional detachment - the perfect English gentleman. Anyone who had heard the language spewing from his mouth would have had to do a rapid re-evaluation. He didn't like to dwell on the embarrassment if he'd opened the message in the Armory, or God forbid, the bridge!

Malcolm had forced himself to read through the message again, this time right to the end. The Captain's eagerness shone through his words: I've found a highlights vid which will be perfect for going through the rules again. Then a championship match in the evening at dinner.

Breakfast and water polo, and then later, dinner and water polo.

Malcolm almost wept.

He had been crushed, brought down from his giddy heights of self-delusion. A brilliant plan! Who was he kidding?!

Later on, the Captain had asked with a smile if he had seen the message. Malcolm had nodded, and forced out a quiet, 'Thank you, Sir', to which Archer had responded with a friendly slap on the back before setting off to his duties.

Malcolm had had to accept the invitation, of course - he felt he had no alternative. The Captain knew as well as he did what his duty shifts were. He couldn't murmur a quick, "I'm sorry - I won't be able to make it then, other plans..." a get-out he had tended to use on other awkward occasions.

So now here he was, staring stupidly at the door to the Captain's private dining room, wishing he were anywhere else on the ship, doing anything else. This was his comeuppance. He couldn't stand water polo – his earlier research had confirmed that. Why was he here!?

Malcolm was unable to move. He stared fixedly at the door before him, unwilling to take the final step forward. Unwilling and physically unable.

In fact, he thought disinterestedly, seeing himself from outside for moment, he was in all likelihood still in shock. His body still had a certain numbness to it. His limbs were clumsy and everything round about seemed filmed by a gauzy haze.

Malcolm ran a shaky hand across his brow, then around the inside of his collar. He couldn't believe he had ended up in this absolute mess!

'It not fair,' he moaned internally. He had spent so much time in research for the last time, so the Captain didn't have to deal with a bumbling fool again, and more importantly for his own self-esteem. And yet what had that effort got him? Nothing! Worse than nothing! He should have just forgotten about trying to make an effort and stumbled through the ordeal. Then neither he nor the Captain would have to go through this again.

A low growl of annoyance leaked from him. He was such an idiot. He should have known it would not have been so easy. It served him right, to think he could sweep from incompetent blunderer to confident conversationalist overnight.

He ground his teeth together and balled his fists. His brow felt cool under a light sheen of sweat.

Malcolm's eyes rolled back in his head and he let out a little moan. Snapping to awareness he checked around quickly. Fortunately there was no one nearby to hear his distress.

He gave a sour smile at that. Somehow his predicament had got around the crew. He was probably a laughing stock. It would destroy his credibility - the first crewman to be snagged by Archer for serious water polo watching. Except for Trip. He snorted in grim amusement. No - Trip didn't count. The Commander was only an occasional viewer on his own terms and quite capable of getting out of it gracefully.

Trip had been no use at all to Malcolm when he had eventually swallowed his pride and gone looking for ideas.

"So Commander... any suggestions?" Malcolm had tried to appear carefree, as if it were an academic matter, but he knew his eyes had given him away.

"Just say you can't make it. That's what I'd do." Trip had seemed amused at Malcolm's agitation.

"But I can. And he knows what my duty shifts are."

"Well then, say you don't like water polo," Trip had replied reasonably enough, with a logical lift of one eyebrow, no doubt an unwitting legacy from T'Pol.

"You don't understand," Malcolm had said hopelessly, realizing there would be no help from that quarter.

So now Malcolm was here, outside the Captain's private mess, and petrified by the thought of what was to come. This time he had no plan to implement, although not for want of trying. There was a part of his brain that couldn't seem to face the approaching horror. He had even asked Trip to come as well, but his friend - so-called friend - had refused with an infuriating grin.

"Sorry, Malcolm. The Captain invited you, not me."

Malcolm muttered, "'Pride comes before a fall," This was his punishment. He tentatively extended a finger toward the doorbell, then snatched it back within the cocoon of his fist.

He blinked, took several deep breaths and tried again. And failed. 'Oh well,' he thought acerbically, 'at this rate I'll miss breakfast all together.'

He had to do it! He couldn't add lateness to the equation. Punctuality on board ship was essential, at least in his lexicon. He placed his finger on the bell, closed his eyes and pushed.

"Come in," came Archer's cheery voice from within, totally oblivious to the raging torments that had been taking place mere meters from him.

Malcolm plastered a rigid smile on his face, stood proud and opened the door. He stepped inside - a decisive gesture. He told himself he had done this once - he could do it again. There was no need to be so worked up about it, but the internal monologue didn't work. Intellectual and emotional states ran out of sync.

"Malcolm. Good morning!" Archer had his back to Malcolm and shot the greeting over his shoulder.

"Good morning, Sir." It came out more forcefully than Malcolm had intended as he attempted to compensate. He didn't want to sound like a scared mouse.

Archer bustled around, totally absorbed in his task and showing no sign of having heard Malcolm's unusual intonation. He was in the process of setting up a large viewscreen next to the table and fiddling with its position. "Sit down, Malcolm," he said. "I'm making sure we've both got good views."

"Thank you, Sir," said Malcolm, settling himself in the chair next to Archer's usual one. He watched the Captain's careful adjustments and his joyful demeanor and gave a little sigh. The Captain was in good spirits but it was all due to his deceit and he felt most uncomfortable about it.

He decided he would have to make a clean breast of it. It wasn't fair on the Captain. After all, how would he feel if T'Pol, for example, suddenly decided she wanted to spend all her free time discussing energy weapons with him and then he discovered it was a sham?

That peculiar idea distracted him for a few moments while he waited for Archer to finish off his task.

Archer dropped down in his chair. "I wouldn't normally watch vids at breakfast, but this is for a good cause. Gotta get you up to speed before this evening!" He grinned, looking almost boyish in his enthusiasm.

Malcolm blinked. He had never seen the Captain so relaxed in his company before, not in a non-work situation.

His resolve to own up died. It seemed so unfair to deprive the Captain of his chance to express his passion for his sport.

Possibly, thought Malcolm, if he paid attention he might even get some pleasure from the game? He doubted it, but he decided to try his best. If it didn't work, well then, he would have to bite the bullet and confess. It wouldn't kill him, would it? He could act like an adult - after all, he was an adult! He realized that Trip had been right. He had to face this on his own, and would be better for it.

Malcolm settled down in his seat, starting to feel more hopeful about things. He was in control once more. He was even sufficiently at ease as to wonder what was on the menu.

The steward brought in the food - less ambitious than a full English breakfast but appealing nonetheless – glazed ham and pineapple, pancakes... various toppings. Malcolm's morale was raised another notch.

The Captain held up a data crystal for Malcolm to admire. "The best plays of last season," he said, turning it about and casting a loving eye over it. "Plus some which caused some controversy. I put it all together as a kind of tutorial, as I said."

Malcolm felt a muscle twitch in his cheek. He lifted the corners of his mouth, hoping it would approximate a smile. "That must have taken some time."

"Yeah, but it's worth it." Archer said. He placed the crystal in the player with a wicked, conspiratorial grin at Malcolm. "I know it's early in the day, but let's live a little, Malcolm," he said.

Malcolm could only grunt. His optimism was starting to fade again, now he was facing the reality of his circumstances. Trapped with his senior officer. His Captain! Watching water polo. He tried to remember some of T'Pol's meditation tips to regain his equilibrium, but it didn't work.

The Captain switched to 'play' and sat back with a contented smile.

"Here we go," said Archer. "I thought I'd start with a few straightforward plays to begin with. Stanford is in the blue caps..."

The image was of excellent quality. It was an outdoor pool and the bright sun brought the colors into vivid life. The players flung the ball about effortlessly, with much splashing and strong powerful strokes, easily covering the length of the pool.

Malcolm watched, transfixed by the sight, his food forgotten. He'd caught glimpses of the odd game previously - who hadn't on this ship? - but he'd never really watched one properly before. There was a sick fascination for him in what he was seeing. He was drawn in despite himself, almost a party to the action.

The players splashed around, pushing one another under, holding one another down, and then rising to the surface gasping for breath. An underwater camera gave an excellent view of the shenanigans below the surface, the desperate plunging and holding down. It left nothing to the imagination.

Malcolm watched wide-eyed. He hadn't realized it would be so rough. A vague anxiety stole across him.

Then it happened.

Malcolm felt his throat constrict. He began to hyperventilate and an uncontrollable shuddering racked his body. 'No! Not now,' he protested helplessly as the room swam about him, an unreasonable terror seizing him.

He slammed his hands down on the table which he knew was there, although his limbs had become too numb to register the blow.

His heart pounded, a loud thumping muffling all other sounds. He could hear the Captain's voice, as if from far away. Malcolm cursed silently. Even as the faintness overtook him, he knew it was completely ridiculous - to think that the mere image of people swimming could precipitate this! He was so absurdly weak! He stumbled to his feet, trying to put distance between himself and the object of his fear, but the dizziness took hold.

All Malcolm could see now was the water, closing over his head. His vision darkened...

The room spun around and he dropped like a stone onto the deck, his head bouncing off it with a sickening thud.

----------------------

Malcolm's first sight when he regained his senses was a pair of startlingly blue eyes and an even more startling smile that stretched over an entire face. He shrank back at this menacing vision, disoriented and wondering for a hazy moment if an alien predator had attacked him. Surely behind that mouth were sharp rows of shark's teeth?

Before he could take action, he recalled what had happened, and his brief alarm was replaced with utter and complete mortification.

He blinked and offered Phlox a weak smile.

"Deep breaths, Lieutenant, deep breaths," urged Phlox.

Malcolm realized he was on the verge of hyperventilating again and closed his eyes, trying to force relaxation and a feeling of well being through his body, with minimal success. But then, he thought, he never did have much success at relaxing in Sick Bay; there were too many unpleasant memories. He had never been comfortable around medicos and his experiences with Phlox had certainly done nothing to improve matters in that respect – quite the opposite in fact.

"Malcolm..." said Archer uncertainly.

Malcolm's eyes flew open as he remembered another component to his humiliation. The Captain! Not only did the Captain now know about his secret, he had actually seen it in action - a complete loss of control and absolutely absurd. And now he was here, in Sick Bay, to watch the outcome.

It was ridiculously stupid – an Armory Officer laid low by a water polo vid! Malcolm was disgusted with himself.

"Deep breaths!" repeated Phlox, sounding annoyed. "Come on, Lieutenant. You can do better than that!"

Malcolm started breathing again and darted a look at the Captain. Archer was standing alongside the bed with an expression of immense concern and sadness on his face.

"Captain..." said Malcolm, wondering what he could say to remedy matters. He tailed off as he realized it was impossible. The Captain would never be able to trust him to do his job again. He added an inadequate, muffled, "Sorry," and looked away, waiting for the axe to fall.

Phlox moved away to check some readings. Malcolm followed his movements with his eyes, grimacing as a shooting pain raced across his brain. Then he forced himself to look back to the Captain – there was no point in dragging this out.

Archer cleared his throat and said, "I'm sorry, Malcolm. It must be your..." he checked to make sure Phlox wasn't within earshot, "aquaphobia."

Malcolm was pretty sure the Doctor had already figured it out, but he gave the Captain credit for being tactful. He could be thoughtful at times.

Malcolm nodded, feeling embarrassed. "Uhh, Captain..." he started, but Archer was ahead of him.

"It's okay," Archer assured Malcolm. "I won't tell anyone. Neither will Phlox."

Malcolm nodded slowly, grateful for that at least. He tried to make it easier for the Captain. "I guess you need to think about appointing someone else?"

"What?" said Archer, staring at Malcolm as if he'd grown an extra head. "Appointing someone else for what?"

"As Armory Officer, Sir. I thought I could handle it, but obviously I can't and-"

"Malcolm! I don't want to replace you because of this!"

"You don't?"

"No. Of course not!"

"But it might affect how I carry out my duties and-"

Archer laughed, "Malcolm. In case you hadn't noticed, we are in space. No oceans out here, and – sadly - not even a pool on board."

"Yes, but what if we visit a planet with lots of water?"

"It won't happen too often, and when we do, we can play it by ear." Archer could see that Malcolm remained unconvinced. "Look, Malcolm. We all have our demons. We can't let them rule our lives. In any case, I want the best I can get as my Armory Officer - and that means you!"

Malcolm's mouth dropped open at this unlooked for praise. "Thank you, Sir," he said eventually, feeling considerably happier. The Captain was taking this much better than he could have hoped. He felt a weight lift from him.

"About tonight..." Malcolm croaked, wondering if there was any way he could try to face the water polo dinner. Perhaps if he kept his eyes averted and just listened to the commentary, he could manage to stay conscious?

The Captain looked truly sorrowful, distraught almost. "I am so sorry, Malcolm. We had better cancel that. I am afraid you will never be able to appreciate water polo."

Fortunately, at that moment, Phlox called to Archer and he looked away, missing Malcolm's unguarded expression of sheer joy and thankfulness. Malcolm quickly clamped down on his feelings. There would be time enough later to appreciate his good fortune.

Archer turned back to Malcolm. "Perhaps we can find you another sport," he mused. "Is there anything else which might appeal? Baseball? Proper football?" He gave a light laugh.

Malcolm had learned his lesson. He kept his mouth shut tight. Not even an encouraging murmur passed his lips. He didn't even twitch. He remained as expressionless as the most disapproving Vulcan.

The Captain stared at him a long while, then pursed his lips and sighed. "I guess not."

Malcolm sighed as well - with contentment. His nightmare had ended!

END
A/N: Part 3 of 'Operation Bamboozle' takes place after this story and will be posted next week.