Thank You's: Seriously, people. Big head over here.JadziaKathryn (I adore Ethan as well—he's actually based off of one of my closest friends. Yeah, I felt bad about making Trip not go to Hoshi's wedding, but he was afraid of seeing Malcolm, y'know? This part, you'll find out a little of what Malcolm never forgave Jon for. And, yes, Trip's alive, because, obviously, I take care of our boys better. Well, a little bit better.), Midnight Dove (Yes, Maddy lovers unite! And, hopefully, I will be writing more House fic. Wilson-centered, of course.), Gabi2305, Tata (I don't know if you can classify what I'm about to do as small…), Jaws, RoaringMice, and a very special thank you to reader1, who corrected my Bowie-Springsteen mistake, 'cause I'm an idiot.
Note the First: This chapter is all about the past, with more dialogue than anything. Some of you wanted to know what the Nazer'teh Incident was and I have obliged. This will help you understand the changes in David and Fritz, as well as part of what happened to Malcolm (whose activities during the Missing Years, for the most part, will stay rather vague and mysterious for the rest of the story) to change him.
Note the Second: For a little help imagining Fritz's voice, think the guy who played Rochefort (Does Michael Wincott not have the craziest voice, you know, ever?) in the Disney's version of The Three Musketeers, with a hint of English and German.

Four: Office Gossip

But nothing's unforgiven in
The four corners of hell.

—Flogging Molly

I key the door to Fritz's quarters open—it's good to be captain—and enter. The room is fairly large (the ships have gotten larger and crew quarters more roomy) and the air feels warm and moist from the shower being run in the head. I look around, briefly. We're not going to be on the ship long, a month at the very most, so no one really brought any personal items. Fritz though has a picture resting on his work station, one of Malcolm and David and himself. I can tell it's fairly old, a few months after I left, because Malcolm's a commander and the Gruesome Twosome are lieutenants.

Something crashes in the shower and Fritz swears loudly in German. I try to ignore the roughness in his voice.

"Hey, Commander," I call out. There's a pause.

"Captain?" comes Fritz's voice.

"I wanted to talk with yew," I tell him. Really, I want to know what happened to him and David and, most of all, Malcolm. Naturally, I'm curious as to why they seem so much more adult than before: they're certainly not the Lego lovin' lunatics I once knew. God only knows what has become of Malcolm through what happened.

"I'll be out soon," he calls back. I nod to myself and sit down at his desk.

It's been two days since the dinner and most of the crew has come aboard, getting their departments ready. The ship we were given is an old version, something between the new Daedalus classes and the old NX-01's class, so it's not as big as the Avenger is but still bigger than the Enterprise. I sigh, moving a little. We embark for the rescue in a day.

Fritz exits his bathroom, a towel wrapped about his waist and drying his hair with another, and a billow of shower smoke follows him out. The scar on his neck stands out in high white resolution against his shower reddened skin. He nods a greeting to me and goes to his closest, pulling out a pair of cotton pants and slipping them on with no regard for me. Fritz, I recall from my time on Enterprise, has always been a very open person. He turns around and sits on his bed, still rubbing at his head with the towel.

"What can I do for you, sir?" asks Fritz. I manage not to cringe visibly at his voice, but he notices my discomfort at it. He grins, wryly. "It's okay, Captain, no matter what David says. I understand that I sound much different than what you remember and that it's going to take time for everyone to get used to it." He pauses. "It's okay to not be okay with it."

"It is weird," I admit.

"Try having it as your voice," he notes. Fritz drops the towel down, apparently satisfied with his damp hair. It sticks up awkwardly in various places and he tries to calm it down with his hands. "What was it that you needed, sir?"

Again, I sigh and shift. "I wondered if yew could tell me what happened to the three of you."

"Ah," says Fritz, a sage look in his half-lidded eyes as he stares at me. "Well. That may take some time."

"I've got time," I reply.

He nods and his eyes turn far away from me. "It will take some time because, unlike most believe, it didn't start right before their capture and torture, as well as my eventual joining with them. It started a very long time ago, back when we were children and none of this had happened, or could have even been imagined to matter at all to us. And it," Fritz notes hesitantly, "it really didn't start with Malcolm or I as children. I suppose—it began—with David." He nods again, more to himself than to me. "Yes, it all began with David."

Fritz shifts on the bed, making himself more comfortable. He leans against the wall, resting his head there, and poses a question to the room, "Did you ever notice David's ability to pick things up very quickly—faster than most?"

I nod. That ability was quite an asset to us in Engineering when we had just been attacked and were short staffed. I look at Fritz, a little confused, wondering where this was going—I had always thought David was just a naturally intelligent man. (His multiple degrees from Harvard were certainly evidence of it.)

"Then," Fritz is saying; "it'll come as a big surprise to you that David was born autistic."

I, personally, feel that almost falling out of my chair is quite justified.

The German officer laughs, a light, bitter noise that sort of grates against my ears. "Yes, I had just about the same reaction. Then again, I was also confined to a bed as I had just had my vocal cords practically ripped from my throat."

"Lovely image," I comment.

"So Malcolm tells me," rejoins Fritz. He continues: "Back to the beginning. David was born autistic and—did you know that his family were all circus folk? As was he, and that is important—and his parents really couldn't deal with the fact that there son was, oh I don't know, damaged, I suppose. Anyway, they took him to a doctor that was willing to perform certain procedures that are frowned upon by the rest of decent society." He smiles again, that thin cutting smile. "David's words, not mine, mind you. I have the more quaint vocabulary of the two of us, or so I'm told, but I digress. David had this procedure performed on him and, miraculously, he was normal, with everyone none the wiser—including David himself."

"David's genetically modified," I say as clarity comes to me. "That's why David was regulated ta Research, and that's why Vincent got all funny when I suggested puttin' him as one of my senior staff."

"You're getting ahead of the story, sir." Fritz rises then and grabs a glass off his desk, filling and then draining it and filling it again, before returning to his seat. He holds the glass. "He was told on his fifteenth birthday, I believe it was, of what had been done to him. And that, sir, is the story of David."

"This plays in how?" I ask, a little impatient. Fritz tips his glass towards me.

"For that," he says, "we'll have to skip a bit. Fast-forward ten or so years. David is a junior grade lieutenant aboard Enterprise, and, along with his trusty best friend"—he tips the glass towards himself now with a smile—"me, he's trying to help his commanding officer out of the grief of losing his best friend. That's you," he adds, a little sarcastic.

It's justified, I'll admit, but grief? I suppose my leaving hurt him as much as it hurt me.

Fritz is still speaking. "So David gets it into his fool head that he and the Boss will go down to a planet and do some odd bonding thing. I never understood it personally," Fritz tells me. "But then I never had brothers to test these things on."

"So they go to the planet," I prompt.

"Ah, yes—the planet." Fritz says the word in a philosophical way that I found somewhat disturbin', what with his rough and metallic voice. "They go down, do surveys, and I suppose get some of their bonding in before their capture by the alien." He pauses. "I don't know, exactly, what they went through. For that, you'd have to ask David or Malcolm—and even then they both claim they don't remember much. Anyway. They were captured by this alien—Nazer'teh—and tortured. David got his hand chopped off at one point"—I cringe on the younger man's behalf—"and the Boss, I'm told, went a little nutters under a solitary confinement.

"Meanwhile, back on Enterprise, I'm freaking out. My best friends have been captured and the Captain has been put under orders not to go down into the hostile territory—the supervision of Vulcans who have met this species," he adds, disgusted. "Turns out, I don't follow orders well."

I can't help myself—I smile. "Yew didn't."

He grins back, faintly. I can tell his too far back in the memories to let an actual one out. "I did. I shanghaied a shuttle pod and speeded off to the rescue. And it turns out that I really didn't think that through. I got captured myself." He pauses again, and when he starts up again, his voice is slightly higher and very quick. "I was pulled into their cell by Nazer'teh and all I really remember was just seeing the two of them there, huddled in the corner. Dave was holding onto Malcolm so tightly…I don't even remember the words spoken by the alien. It was just—the words were in the air and suddenly I couldn't breathe. I was on the ground, and gripping my throat, and, God, I couldn't breathe."

His breath is coming in short little bursts and I reach out a hand to him, feeling something for him in his panic. It's something I remember seeing in Malcolm all those years ago on the ice planet and I don't know if it has always been Malcolm's trait and it's rubbed off on Fritz or the other way around. All I know is that it's enough to draw me and think that I'm talking with a little bit of Malcolm.

Fritz shakes me off, gently, and continues on: "I don't remember much else, just a brief flash of Malcolm suddenly standing and then him dragging me at his side. I don't know where Dave was when that was happening, but he was at my side in the shuttle pod, holding my bleeding neck." He blows out a quick breath. "Everything's a blank from there, something I'm rather grateful for; I'm told the surgery was long and painful, nearly as bad as David's. I woke up a week later, voiceless, and in an indescribable amount of pain. David was one bed to my left and Malcolm was sitting on a chair between us." Another pause, and Fritz takes a drink. "The next few months were a blur—I was rather high on pain relievers—but I remember being with the Boss and David most of the time. We were promoted shortly after."

"Why were yew two regulated to Research?" I ask. Fritz nods absently.

"It was found out that David was genetically altered, illegally, when they were replacing his hand," Fritz says. "Admiral Archer was duty bound to report it, though he didn't want to and he put it off as long as he could, about six months in fact. The brass didn't take it very well, and they were going to discharge David. I don't know who, but some people stepped in on his behalf and both Malcolm and I threatened to resign ourselves. David was sent to research then, and Malcolm and I were given new assignments, away from Enterprise and each other. After a while, I got sick of working on the ship with people I didn't know, nor who knew what happened to me and why I talked so oddly, and I requested to be transferred to Research, with Dave. So that's what became of us while you were in your self-imposed exile.

"And the rest," he adds, "as they say, is history."

"Thanks," I tell him, "for tellin' me this."

"You're my captain now, Captain," he says. "And maybe you can help us finally get over it all."

I nod, not knowing what else to say. My curiosity has been, well, sated and I know what happened to them and why they are the men they are but I can't even begin to imagine what happened to them down there, or even why someone would want to do that. I doubt that even they actually know why it happened to them, and I suppose that must be very painful for them. What I can imagine, though, is why they have never fully gotten over, come to grips, with what was done to them, why they were used like they were. That—that I can totally get on board with.

We sit in silence for a moment, each thinking out own thoughts: me with what had happened to them and what has happened to me and how there are some parallels in that; Fritz…Fritz's thoughts I can't even begin to understand. He has always been an enigma to me, much like Malcolm: their faces cannot be read.

I hated playing poker with them. They always took all my money.

"Jon said the weirdest thing to me last night." I don't know exactly why I said that; it just popped out. But Fritz doesn't appear to mind; he just looks at me, his eyes level and unreadable.

"It's been my experience that Admiral Archer usually says weird things," he notes. "Could this possibly end up being weirder than the gazelle spiel?"

"Nothin's weirder than the gazelle spiel," I quip. Fritz chuckles into his glass, and I get back on topic. "It's got potential to be weirder. But, anyway—Jon came up to me before I got to the house and just casually told me that Malcolm had 'never forgiven' him for somethin'. I asked what, and Jon just smiled kinda sad and said, Lots of things."

"Ah," says Fritz, his voice philosophical again. "I may be able to shed a little light on this, too."

"Really," I say.

Fritz gives me a little nod of his head, saying, "Don't you know I'm like God?" We both chuckle again and Fritz adds, in caution, "And when I say little, I mean minute."

"A little goes a long way," I say. Fritz spares a moment to roll his eyes at the cliché.

"I remember, before Malcolm and I got reassigned when we were a commander and a lieutenant, overhearing a conversation between the Admiral and Malcolm, though the Admiral was a captain then."

"Yew 'overheard'?" I say. "Are yew just tryin' to avoid sayin' yew eavesdropped?"

"Like I'd ever tell you," he informs me. "Plus, God doesn't eavesdrop. That's wrong. And don't interrupt! Anyhow, I heard them talking." He emphasizes 'heard' and gives me a look.

I hold up my hands. "I didn't say anythin'."

"You were thinking it. Again, anyhow, I don't know what exactly they were talking about, though I have my suspicions that it was you, my dear Captain," he adds. I can't tell if he's mocking me or not; I think he is. "They were about to leave and the Admiral said something that went along the lines of 'You never forgave me'. Malcolm looked at him and replied, 'No, Jon, I never did'. Because he called him Jon then; most of the old senior crew did."

I nod, wondering if it was me they were indeed talking about, or if it was Jon giving up David to Starfleet, or if it was him sending the both of them down there and letting Fritz come after them. Or maybe it's just all the things that Jon had failed to protect his crew from, even though he tried his damnedest and would have walked through fire for us. That, I think, is something Malcolm had forgotten as time moved on. I know I did and it took me years to realize it again: that Jon would have given anything if it meant keeping us safe and that it was just all those old men in cushy chairs that had never been out in space that sent us to our many deaths.

It was too late then, and I suppose it's too late now.

"I hope I was able to answer your questions," Fritz tells me, breaking into my thoughts.

"Yes, yew were," I tell him. I rise and so does Fritz. "How 'bout yew and David join me for dinner in the Captain's Mess?"

Now, that's something I never thought I'd ever say again.

"Sure," says Fritz. "I'll tell Dave."

We nod at each other and, as I leave Fritz's quarters, I imagine that I can almost hear it, the conversation that Fritz overheard all those years ago. Jon's voice would be warm and compassionate and still sad and repentant. Malcolm's would be cold and matter-of-fact.

"You never forgave me."

"No, Jon, I never did."

I can feel the ghosts of the men we were in this room with the imagined words. I can feel the captain, the commander, and the lieutenant with spirit fingers wrapping around my biceps and choking my throat. I can feel the whispers of the way it was before, before all this happened. I can feel the fear, the anger, the hate. I can feel the sadness, the bitterness, and the absence of hope. I can feel their specters, the ghosts of the people we were.

It hurts me in a way I never imagined.