Life moved on, and Trip settled into a new routine in his new neighbourhood. He woke at dawn to exercise, spent his day tinkering or lecturing at Starfleet or the local university, and cooked his evening meal from scratch before settling down to eat while watching a movie. Once he'd tidied up his home afterwards, he took his chocolate lab puppy, Thor, for a leisurely stroll around the block in the last rays of the setting sun.

Tonight, the puppy had been making trouble with his cat, Kent, trying to initiate play when Kent wanted to be left alone to lounge in the bay window, and Trip felt like stretching his legs a bit more and exploring further. So they kept walking, Trip carefully tucking away the turns he made in his mental map so he wouldn't have a hard time finding his way back. The puppy yipped happily and tugged on the leash in his enthusiasm to explore, and Trip was content to continue on.

They found their way to a main road but given the time, it was fairly quiet. Trip spotted a pub up ahead, and he looked down at Thor as they waited for the light to turn at a crossing. "What'd you think, pup? Want a little drink before we head home to bed?" Thor woofed, and Trip grinned. "I thought so, too."

The light turned, and they crossed. Trip whistled as they walked along, and soon they were in the homely atmosphere of the pub. Trip headed to the bar and ordered a drink. It arrived shortly along with a bowl of water and a few complimentary treats for Thor, and he smiled as he thanked the bartender.

About an hour and a few drinks later and Trip felt pleasantly buzzed from the alcohol and warm from the easy conversation with all those who'd stopped to chat with him and pet his dog, even earning himself the console number of a man who didn't remind him of Malcolm in any way. Bidding his new friends goodnight, he and Thor took their leave.

With a vague idea of where he was in relation to his home, Trip decided to take a different route back. He turned off the main road, back into the more residential areas, and was just coming up on a lovely old home that was now in use as flats when he spotted the ghost that haunted his thoughts.

He inhaled sharply and ran. "Malcolm! Malc!" Surely this time, Malcolm would hear him and respond. They were so close. He yelled Malcolm's name, Thor barking along happily, as he ran, but Malcolm never turned — didn't even seem to pause in unlocking the door to his flat — and stepped inside, the door snicking shut as Trip crossed the property's boundary.

He came to an abrupt stop, just like the door had, and agitatedly tossed his head. His fingers curled into a fist around Thor's leash as he stood there trying to figure out what to do. It had been five years now since Malcolm had stopped taking his calls, and Jon had eventually told him that Malcolm didn't wish to speak to him anymore and no, he wouldn't go against Malcolm's wishes and pass along any message.

His heart ached at the thought that he had permanently destroyed not just their romantic relationship but also their decades-long friendship. He had to try. Didn't he?

Lost inside his thundering head, he blinked and found himself in front of the door. His hand raised but stalled uncertainly in the air. Though Malcolm hadn't said anything directly to him, he'd made his position blindingly clear. Who was he to try to force something out of the man?

But, he rationalised, sometimes when you made choices like that, the enormity of it set you on a course you felt you couldn't leave. Sometimes, you needed a little nudge. Maybe Malcolm would be okay with talking to him, if only Trip could make the first step. Sighing softly, he knocked, but it was light, tentative. He still wasn't sure if this was the right thing, going against Malcolm's stated wishes like this. Perhaps he was no better than a stalker, even if none of this had been deliberate.

No one answered, but even though Trip knew it was possible Malcolm wouldn't have heard the knock, he turned and left. All his good cheer had fled, and now he felt numb and drunk but not in the good way.

The walk home felt oppressive and interminable. Once inside, he toed off his shoes and unclipped Thor's leash from his collar. The puppy bounded off, tongue lolling out, to nibble some food and flop down in front of his water bowl for a long drink. Not even the puppy's antics or the way Kent weaved between his legs and rubbed up against him in greeting could bring a smile to his lips. Instead, his eyes welled with tears.

Biting his lip, he hurried away to his room and stripped off his clothes. He turned the shower on hot and stood under the spray, hand against the tile, bracing him, head bowed, chest heaving as he cried. If he could have one wish, he would go back in time. He wouldn't let himself sink into the grief of losing his sister and his home, to give in to how easy it was to let himself lie to Malcolm about what he did with T'Pol and what he felt for her, to go behind Malcolm's back. It wasn't like him, to be like that, but nothing had felt right then. And it had all been made worse by the war and the whiplash of learning of his child and then her death soon after.

Looking back on his behaviour at the time, it seemed as if a demon had taken hold of him. A demon that had wrecked the one he held dearest.

He clenched his eyes shut and reached blindly for the shampoo bar. Five years had passed, but he wouldn't give up hope. There was still time. One day, perhaps, the pain Malcolm felt would recede, and they would be able to rekindle the friendship they'd both valued. He took a deep breath as he lathered up his locks. There was still time.