Thank You's: You people spoil me, you know that, right? And you also know that this is going straight to my head and I probably won't be able to get my head through the door tomorrow, correct? Now, onwards to the thank you's: Midnight Dove (I share the sentiment about Trip. grins), Luna, JadziaKathryn (About the used: If Malcolm didn't feel used before this story, at the end he sure as hell will.), WhtevrHpnd2Mary (Way Out Yonder was a semi-sequel to Gravity. And, okay, I lied: I said it was happy, but it's not, really. It's going to be depressing, and sad, and quite bitter. But it will be happy at some point, dammit. And that's all I'll say on that subject.), Tata (I'm sorry to tell you—there will be a healthy dose of tragedy. But, as I said above, I will bring the happy.), JacobedRose, trecia, and RoaringMice ("Damn you." Oh, no doubt about that. He has an accent when he speaks because I'm completely crazy. Actually, I don't have a reason. It just happened to come out that way when I wrote it. But insanity seemed like as good an answer as any.).
Note the First: This came out a lot quicker than I thought it would, mainly because I love some of the characters in here. Also, the fact that I had half of it written already didn't hurt. But now I have papers to write and my AP exam is this Friday. So, just be prepared for a longer wait for Three: The Man Who Came To Dinner.
Note the Second: This chapter doesn't have a lot of Malcolm in it, mainly because I wanted to touch on all the other ties Trip has to the world around him that he's kind of broken because his head's rather far up his ass. And that means that two of my favorite people show up! But, of course, nothing would be complete withouta Reed in it, so… grins

Two: Baby, You're A Soldier Now

Well I stood stone like at midnight,
Suspended in my masquerade.
I combed my hair till it was just right
And commanded the night brigade.

—Bruce Springsteen, "Growin' Up"

When I was six, I took a pair of scissors to my hair. I cut one half of my head ridiculously short while the other half was probably two or three inches. In retrospect, I realize that that was a Very Bad idea and I looked incredibly stupid. But, at the time, I thought I looked damn good. Mama had come home and saw me and screamed so loudly her voice escalated to a pitch that I thought only dogs could hear. After the screaming, she silently took me to the barber and I had all of my hair shaved off. I looked like a cancer patient. So we went home and when Daddy got back—oh, jeez, we had a Family Meeting.

I have never attempted to cut my own hair ever again.

-

"What's the occasion, Mr. Tucker?" the barber asks, swinging the apron over my shoulders. I peer through the wet strands of my hair that fall before me eyes at his image, reflecting in the large mirror. Despite the fact that I rarely come to get my hair cut, the barber—Jim—knows who I am. Everybody knows everyone in my little town. It's both nice and annoying.

"Jus' thought I needed a trim," I say. Jim looks at me skeptically.

"Trims usually don't involve the cutting off of most of one's hair," he tells me. He brushes the comb through my hair and lifts up the silver scissors. They glint and sparkle in the light. They start to cut out little hunks of hair, flying, falling, tumbling to the floor. He comments: "With this hair cut, you'd think you were joining up with Starfleet again."

-

I scratch the back of my neck. How odd, not having long hair there anymore.

The red-headed secretary of Whitmore's Headmaster comes out of said Headmaster's office, closing the door behind her. She does it in that creepy, horror movie kind of silence that really freaks me out. She says, "You may go in now, Mr. Tucker."

"Thanks," I say, standing. I smooth the front of my shirt unconsciously and walk down the hall to the Headmaster's office. It's weird—even though I'm a teacher now, I still get that Long Walk of Doom feeling that I used to get when I did something bad in school. I pause halfway through the walk, catching my reflection in the glass frame of a picture. I smooth back some loose tendrils of hair that the gel didn't get. Short as hell (at least, compared to my last hair style), but it's regulation now.

I start walking again, and open the Headmaster's door. There's this bad feeling in the pit of my stomach—like when Jon showed up on my door step, or like when Malcolm turned away from me. I shake my head. Yew can make it alright soon, I tell myself. I step into the office.

"Charles," says Headmaster Lambert, looking up from his desk. His eyes freeze on my hair. Yeah, it's short, it's different, I look like a complete schmuck—I get it, okay? After a moment, he asks, unsure, "What can I do for you?"

I play with the papers behind my back. "I was approached Saturday mornin'." I pause. He stares. Like you don't already know what I'm going to say. "By Starfleet."

"What do they want?" he asks, coldly. The papers shake gently.

"A very," I start; "a very close friend o' mine, along with his ship and crew, went missin' approximately a week ago. Admiral Archer asked if I would head the rescue mission that would be goin' after them. Yew see, with the Federation bein' formed and what not, they can't spare any ships to go out lookin' for my friend and his crew." I shake my head. "Why they don't realize he's one of the smartest guys Starfleet's got is just beyond me, but whatever."

Lambert stares up at me—at my hair, specifically—and repeats my early words to Jon, "What's the catch?"

"I hafta retake my rank," I say slowly. "Yew see, 'cause I was a captain when I resigned, I kinda made myself eligible to be pulled back into service. Woulda happened when I was a commander too, but that's beside the point. But anyway, the thing fer me was that I got asked if I wanted to rejoin. They didn' force me or anythin'."

He's still staring at me. "I assume you've made your choice." It wasn't a question.

I take two steps forward and lay my resignation papers on his desk, alongside several lesson plans. I say, "The thing is, Headmaster—my friend, the captain of the ship, he and I…we're not exactly friends anymore." I pause. "There was an incident before I transferred off my ship, between him and me, and…well, we didn' end our friendship on the best o' terms and I wanted to make that up and if he dies out there, not knowin' how sorry I am…"

I trail off. Lambert nods.

"I understand, Mr. Tucker," he says. He picks up the papers and continues, with more grace then I thought he woulda had, considering the situation, "I accept your resignation. It's been an honor working with you."

Nodding, I turn on my heel and leave.

Now, I think as I walk down the hallway and out of the school, into the bright sun of morning—to complete the rest of my tasks…

-

When I called Jon with my answer, he had told me what I was to do: Resign from my post at the school, return to San Francisco, meet with the admirals, and assemble the senior staff for my skeleton crew on the mission. I've known since I made my decision, though, exactly who I want on my crew. So I'm going to inform some of them, before I meet with the admirals and am given a full run-down on the situation.

First stop: Starfleet's Research Department.

-

"Can yew tell me where I can find Lieutenant-Commanders Fritz Schlosser and David Webster?" I ask the woman at the front desk. She looks up at me and searches my face and then looks at the rest of me, which is currently in what I assume is an old style of uniform. It's obvious that she's confused, so I say, "I'm Captain Charles Tucker."

The woman's eyes do this weird widening thing as she realizes who I am. She says, "The admirals are expecting you. They're on the fifth floor."

"I'd like to speak with the Lieutenant-Commanders, first," I inform her. She nods and consults her terminal.

"Eleventh floor. Just take the second turbolift all the way up. Their offices are the seventh doors on your left as you get out." She points to the turbolift I should take and adds, "I think they're in the middle of a testing, though, so they may be in the room next to their offices."

I nod and thank her before heading off to the 'lift. I enter and proceed to ride all the way up, as per her instructions. I lean back against the while and wonder if the Gruesome Twosome has changed much, if they still play with Lego's, if they keep in touch with Malcolm, if they know what's going on with Malcolm now. The turbolift shudders to a halt and I disembark, looking around. The hallway is dark, and I struggle to remember if Research was always like this or if they just having a power outage. I start to walk forward, thinking, Seventh door on my left.

I find the door. There's a little plaque that announces whose offices I'm going into: Lt. Commander Fritz Schlosser; Lt. Commander David Webster. I pause before opening it. Will they accept my offer to be my Security, Tactical, and Armory Officers on this mission? Part of me says, yes, they will, because they have always loved Malcolm, have always looked up to him and would do anything to save him from harm because, on some level, he's their brother too. Another part of me wonders why they aren't already out there with him, as his officers. They had been his seconds for so long.

Something terrible had happened to them, though, all three of them: Malcolm, Fritz, and David. Maybe that's the reason.

I open the door and enter quietly. They're working quietly at a shared desk, standing over something. They're wearing odd uniforms, entirely black, and I wonder if there is the newest uniform that Starfleet has come up with, or if they're just wearing their own clothes. They also have on white lab coats with pips on their shoulders that display their ranks.

Fritz notices me first and his brown eyes are locked on my face when he taps David on his shoulder. David looks at him, sees his stare, and follows it. The two men stare at me. They're older than I remember them ever looking, or ever thought they would look. Privately, I used to believe that they would never grow old, that they would stay two imp like children forever. But, now, their faces are composed of hard lines and their eyes are like flakes of steel.

I don't know exactly what happened to them, just that it was terrible. The mission report is classified and rests in a locked drawer somewhere in San Francisco, with red letters printed largely on it: The Nazer'teh Incident. No one speaks of it. It's one of Starfleet's dirty little secrets, what Fritz and David and Malcolm went through on that planet, and the only actually remnants that testify to what took place (besides the classified files) are the scars they bear: David's black gloves that cover one mechanical hand; the pale white scar that stretches around Fritz's neck and, no matter what he does, that always fails to be hidden; bloody uniforms; broken voices; screaming nights; PTSD.

I hear, from sources all around, from rumors, what may have taken place. A kidnapping. A struggle. An alien. Torture, physical and psychological. The cutting off of a hand. The slitting of a throat. Malcolm, mad. A shuttle pod, stained with all their blood. Gurneys. Nights in sickbay. Emergency operations. Physical therapy. Syndromes. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. A terrifying horror story to rival Alfred Hitchcock. But the scars are the only real testaments to truth.

I don't know exactly what happened to them, nor do I want to know.

"Captain Tucker?" David asks. His voice has definitely changed from when I last spoke to him six years ago. He used to be defiantly Bostonian and, when coupled with Fritz's German-English accent, he used to sound quiet ridiculous. Now, his voice is tempered and the only notes of Boston are the flat a's.

"Commanders," I say. Fritz is looking thoughtfully at me, his one hand absently toying with the hem of his lab coat. David takes a step towards me and holds out his left hand. His right hand, I know from our meeting six years ago, is the mechanical one.

"It's good to see you, as in you yourself and you back in your old, old uniform, Captain," David tells me as I take his hand. Fritz nods and David adds, "I only wish it was under better circumstances."

"Yew know," I state. They nod. David lets go of my hand and takes a step back. He and Fritz stand together now, shoulder to shoulder (though David is considerably shorter than Fritz). Dressed in those matching uniforms, they look like the twin brothers they've always been accused of being.

"Why don't you sit, Captain," David offers, one hand swooping out behind him as he gestures to a chair. I take a seat and watch as David and Fritz do the same. Fritz leans forward in his chair to look at me and David folds his arms across his chest, tucking his right hand beneath his left arm. I remember seeing him do those six years ago—it's a protective gesture that I know was spawned from fear during his torture. David asks, "What can we do for you, Captain?"

I pause and suddenly find myself in my memory, back when I saw David for the last time. It was a year since Malcolm and I stopped speaking, only that banner in the window as our last communication, (I don't know why we fell apart like we did; I think I may have just been too worried I'd hurt him even more) and it was four months after I made Captain and eight months before I resigned my commission because I just couldn't take being in space anymore, even though that was where my heart was.

-

The Columbia was docked at Jupiter station for some repairs and I was walking down her corridors. I had begun doing that a long time ago, just out of a restless need because I was just so tired aboard the ship, too, but I never could find that rest that I needed. I heard someone call out my name and I turned, thinking that one of the crew (I could never think of them as my crew) needed something.

But it was David, walking up to me. His face was pale and hard, his eyes cold. I knew then that something had happened to him.

"Captain Tucker," he said. His voice was still wickedly Boston then. I tried to smile genuinely at him, but I failed. He didn't even attempt a smile.

"What can I do for yew," I began, but paused, staring at his shoulders. He made full lieutenant…

"I need to ask something of you," he told me. "May we speak in private?"

I nodded and we walked back to the Ready Room in silence. Inside, he sat and I sat. We stared at each other until he broke the awkward silence.

"I suppose you've heard what happened to Fritz, Commander Reed, and I," he said.

"Commander?" I asked.

David nodded. "He was promoted along with Fritz and I, after…" He trailed off, but began again, stronger. "About ten months ago, the Commander and I were sent to a planet to do some surveys and, to make a long story short, we were kidnapped and…"—here, his eyes became even harder—"…tortured."

"Oh," I said.

"My hand was cut off." He said it quite matter-of-factly, like he was used to it. But he did have ten months to come to terms with what happened to him, didn't he? I was still in shock, however, when he placed his right hand on the table. He wore a black glove over it and he slowly pulled the glove off. The hand there wasn't flesh and blood, but mechanical with a plastic skin covering it. I could see where the mechanics touched real bone.

"After our rescue," continued David, "in which Fritz's throat was slit to his vocal cords and Commander Reed…" He trailed off again and I was compelled to speak.

"Are they alright?" I asked.

"After a fashion," said David. He said no more on the subject of Fritz and Malcolm. "But I digress from my point of being here. After the rescue, Engineering and Phlox constructed a mechanical hand for me to use and it did quite well for the past few months, but my system has begun to reject it."

"Yew want me to build yew another hand?"

"Yes," said David. "If you wouldn't mind, that is, sir."

I nodded again. "O' course."

"Thank you," David said quietly. He stood stiffly. "I will be on Jupiter station for the next month or so."

Before I could work up the courage to ask him why he was staying on Jupiter Station and not aboard the Enterprise, he had turned and left, adding as he did so, "Commander Reed really is fine, Captain. But he misses you."

I missed him, too.

David left and I built his hand. I never did get the full story.

-

"Captain?" asks David, breaking me out of my trance.

"Reminiscin'," I tell him, "'bout the last time I saw yew."

"Ah," he says, a small grin on his face. "The hand, by the way, is working quite lovely."

"I try," I quip. David's smile widens and a grin cuts across Fritz's gaunt face, splitting it like the scar splits his neck, and I sort of wonder why he hasn't spoken yet.

"Again, sir," says David, "what may we do for you?"

"I was asked to head Malcolm's rescue team," I say. David and Fritz eyes flick towards each other briefly before returning to me. "An' I want yew two to join me as my Security and Tactical heads. If yew wouldn't mind."

They share another one of their creepy twin looks, broadcasting their thoughts to one another. Malcolm and I used to have a communication like that, too, I think. But our bond had been long buried and I wonder if we'll ever get it back. I shake my head, trying to clear my mind, and the Gruesome Twosome are still looking at one another.

And, again, I can't help but wonder why the two of them have been relegated to Research and aren't out with Malcolm.

Suddenly, David nods and Fritz turns to me, speaking for the first time, "Of course, sir."

Part of my brain function, you know, dies as I stare at Fritz. Did that—noise just come from Fritz Schlosser's mouth? It was so gravely and broken and just damned inhuman that it defies all sorts of rational explanation. And then—Fritz's throat was slit to his vocal cords. Oh, Fritz…

He's blushing a little under my stare and I blink, determined not to say a word because I realize how embarrassing that must be for him, to once have a beautiful voice (trust me—I heard the boy sing and, even when he's drunk, he sounds like Sinatra) and to now sound like…that.

"I, uh, I," I stammer, unable to help myself despite my best intentions. Fritz's head's bent down and David's glaring at me a little. "I have a meetin' I gotta go to, with the Admirals." I pause. "I guess I'll see yew two later, afterwards, or whatever…"

David rises, nodding: "Of course, Captain. We'll be waiting for you."

We stare at each other in awkward silence before I stand and leave. I close the door behind me, thinking. Damn. Did I screw that up or what? I sigh. I'll have to figure out how to fix that later, though. I have to get to that meeting.

-

I ride the turbo lift down to the fifth floor and exit, cursing my non-existent tact. Honestly, could I have done anything more stupid than stare at the near-mute like he was a circus freak? 'Cause it's not exactly his fault and, damn, he's got to deal with a lot of that kinda shit without his friends gawking at him. Thank God he's got David. That little hooligan wouldn't know how to let go of a friend even if they tried to beat him off with a two-by-four.

I sigh, still cursing a little. D'yew think, if I tried a little harder, I could be an even bigger horse's ass? 'Cause I think there's unexplored potential.

Turning the corner, I swing into the waiting room, fuming ever so slightly. A pretty blonde woman is sitting in one of Starfleet's uncomfortable chairs (only diplomats and, you know, important people get the really comfy ones). She has on eyeglasses that make her blue-green eyes seem very bright, and dangling bead earrings that drop down and glitter like rain under the bright ceiling lights. She's reading a magazine. A little boy, with a head of thick brown hair and bright eyes like the woman, sits beside her, drawing delightedly in a coloring book. The woman looks up and glances at her son.

"Ethan, darling, do draw inside the lines." She has a beautiful voice: English, dry, rushing, an alto. The boy—Ethan—gives her a little determined frown and goes back to drawing. She smiles affectionately, goes back to ready, and suddenly the fuming disappears as I place her.

"Madeline?"

She looks up again, at me this time. The florescent lights sparkle on her glasses as she stares. Her lips purse while he stares at me, searching my face for some hint of recognition. I remember once, in Malcolm's quarters on Enterprise back when we were happy and sane, seeing a picture of her. She had been younger and smiling, and she hadn't been wearing glasses, but her cheekbones were high and her eyes were still as bright.

I remember thinking she was beautiful and blushing, because this was Malcolm's sister—his baby sister, his only sister.

She's still beautiful.

Suddenly, recognition flickers across her eyes. She stands. "Trip?" Her pretty voice is very soft and she takes a hesitant step forward, towards me. "Trip Tucker?"

"Hey," I say, trying to be glib—but how can one in a situation like this? She takes two long strides and engulfs me with a hug. She smells like lavender and linen and the ocean, and her head fits perfectly in that space beneath my chin. Involuntarily, I make a little choking noise in the back of my throat as my body reacts to the presence of a pretty woman. I tell myself that this is Madeline, Malcolm's sister, dammit. But my body doesn't agree. Madeline, thankfully, doesn't notice, but still she pulls back and there's a little ache in the space where she was. Like how it was when Malcolm turned on his side and never said a word to me again.

She's still grasping my arms, looking me over a little. She smiles brilliantly, her white teeth, like her glasses, glistening in the light.

"They said you might be the one captaining the ship that's going after Malcolm," she says, her eyes darkening and a little sadness coating her voice over Malcolm's name. It's something bitter and broken, like the rest of us. But it's like wind going through dry corn in a field and it's mesmerizing. She twists her body back, letting go of one of my arms. She gestures to her son. "Come here, Ethan."

Ethan looks up at her and stares into her face. His eyes slide down her to where her hand rests on my bicep. He then looks up at me, confused by his mother's intimate gesture with a man he doesn't recognize; I think, I'm just as confused as you are, little buddy. His lips are pursed, wondering. Suddenly, he drops his marker and gets up. Ethan waddles over—in that child-like way, shuffling, head cast down, but still seeing everything somehow and I get that this is Malcolm's nephew—and up to his mother. He wraps his arms about her legs and rests his head against her, always watching.

Madeline turns her head down and looks at him, that look that all mothers get in their eyes when they see their children. She says, "This is Captain Tucker."

He stares at me, little eyes calculating, and I'm enough of a man to say that I'm a little freaked out about that. Ethan mouths the word Trip to himself. Madeline smiles at this, saying, "Yes, Ethan. Captain Trip Tucker." She turns to me. "Malcolm would always tell Ethan about your adventures together. He rather loved them."

It's nice, seeing her smile, but it's still coated with that sad bitterness, and I know that smile because it's the exact same one I use whenever I smile.

"This is my son Ethan," she's saying to me. I really want to ask where the father is but I'm afraid to; mainly because I feel like I'll end up with my foot in my mouth again, and if I keep putting it there I'm going to end up with Athlete's Mouth. Madeline responds to my unasked question with grace and poise; it's as if she knows people want to ask her it all the time. "Ethan's father and I divorced before he was born."

I have the sudden urge to kick the crap out of a man I don't even know and it's obviously displayed on my face as she laughs and tells me, "Don't worry; Malcolm's already given Paul hell for it."

"I can imagine," I tell her. She smiles again, the sad smile, and I know she feels all broken up about Malcolm too. But probably, though, not to the extent that I do because I doubt that she's ever walked out on her brother like I did. I shove the memory down, trying to be a little happy. I know it probably won't work; the happiness, that is. But I have to try and stay clear headed for all that will come.

Ethan's still watching me, I notice, and I bend down, smiling at him.

"Hi," I say.

He blinks.

Madeline sighs.

Ethan turns away from me and goes back to his drawing pad. I turn my head up to look at Madeline. She's staring after her son, sadly, but brightens when she realizes I'm looking at her.

"Cute kid," I say, standing.

"Adorable," she agrees. "But then, he is my son so I am bound to be biased."

"All mamas are," I tell her.

"When's you're meeting?" she asks suddenly.

I glance at the atomic clocks that line the wall. "Soon."

We stand in silence for a while. I shift nervously back and forth, feeling very awkward. Madeline speaks, once again suddenly and not looking at me, "I hope you find him."

"I do too," I tell her. I pause. "After the meetin'," I begin, "would yew and Ethan like to, uh, maybe go out for some lunch? With me?"

She turns her head, sharply, and seems to think for a moment. I'm about to once again open my mouth and just ram my foot down my throat when she says, "Of course. But, I myself have a meeting with the Admirals right after you, so you would have to wait."

"I can wait," I say, quickly. Possibly a little to quickly, but what the hell. She nods, brightly. I ask, "What's yer meetin' 'bout?"

"They're thinking about putting families aboard ships now," she tells me. "But, of course, that would mean they need all different types of assistance for those families then, including teachers." Madeline, if I remember correctly from my conversations with Malcolm, is a third grade math teacher. "So they would like my input on the subject."

"That'd be cool," I say for lack of something, well, cooler.

But it brings a small smile to her face, a genuine one that isn't at all sad, so I kinda figure my making a complete idiot of myself was worth it.

Suddenly, the door of the Admirals' room opens out to us, and an Admiral whose gray hair is shaved into a military crew-cut pops his head out. He looks around twice before seeing me. "We're ready for you know, Mr.—Captain Tucker," he says, swiftly correcting himself on my rank. I nod at him and he slips back into the room. I start to follow him.

Madeline stops me. She stands on the tips of her toes and brushes my hair back from my forehead, smoothing it down. She looks at me, warmly: "You're a soldier again, Mr. Tucker, it's best that you look the part."

"Call me Trip," I say.

"Only if you call me Madeline." She gives me that warm look again, and something in my chest feels oddly free as I go into the Admirals' office for my meeting.