Lyrics from As Time Goes By belong to Herman Hupfeld and Warner Brothers Music Corporation, ASCAP.

Trip was the last to leave the subspace shuttle after it had docked at the gate at the Carter-King space port in Atlanta. Whatever videographers were around had been too interested in T'Pol and Jhamel to wait about for an aging, graying, widowed space captain. Jon had arranged for private transportation to take Trip home, but Trip declined. He'd just take the MARTA. It was Friday night, and the trains would be full. He could get lost in the crowd at the transfer station at Five Points. It didn't matter that the closest stop to his home was a good 2 miles away. He needed all the time he could get to steel himself to face the old, rambling and very empty house.

Trip's home was an old plantation house that had somehow escaped the ravages of Sherman's blue hordes during the Battle of Atlanta. Rumor had it that it was because it had been used as the headquarters for Major General Grenville Dodge of the Union Army's XVI Corps. Malcolm had doubted that it was true, but Trip clung to the story because Dodge had gone on to become the chief operating engineer for the Union Pacific, half of the Transcontinental Railroad, one of the greatest engineering feats of the second half of the 1800s. Of course, the house had been partially demolished, added on to, remodeled, rehabbed and generally redone so many times over the years that very little of the original structure actually remained.

For Trip, though, the house had always been special. It had been Grandma Tucker's home and the site of innumerable Tucker family gatherings, including Grandma Tucker's 100th birthday party which had taken place in the week after Trip and Malcolm had married. Of course, Trip chose that day to bring Malcolm home to meet his family. Poor Malcolm had been overwhelmed by the numerous loud, boisterous and inquisitive members of the Tucker clan. They, in turn, particularly the Tucker women, had been quite taken with the handsome, polite, shy, soft-spoken Englishman with the lovely accent. Their immediate and unconditional acceptance had stunned him, given his less than optimal experience with his own family.

Trip had been surrounded by the children who all clamored to hear his stories about space and all the strange and exotic people he'd met. "Uncle Trip, do the Andorians really have antennae like bugs? Do Tellarites really look like Porky Pig?" He'd kind of lost track of Malcolm for awhile but eventually found him sitting and talking quietly with Grandma Tucker in the gazebo in the backyard. Before he could interrupt, he'd been called away by one of the older boys who was restoring a classic Hummer and wanted his expert engineer's opinion. Later that evening, Grandma Tucker had taken him aside and offered her assessment of Malcolm and a bit of advice: "Charlie, you've found yourself a mighty nice young man. Just remember, keepin' is even harder than gettin'. Ya got a tendency to run off at the mouth sometimes and kinda take things for granted. Ya could lose Malcolm doin' that which would make ya 'bout the biggest fool this side of the Mississippi."

Trip and Malcolm had rejoined the Enterprise following their honeymoon leave and were about 3 years into their second 5-year deployment when they received news that Grandma Tucker had died peacefully in her sleep in her big, old house. Malcolm had been as distressed as Trip. He'd kept in touch with her regularly as if she had been his own grandmother, and whenever Enterprise stopped in at Jupiter Station, she had always sent a "care package" for him as well as Trip. Nonetheless, he was unprepared for the message he received a few weeks later.

"Good lord, I can't accept this!"

"Can't accept what, darlin'?" Trip asked as he strolled out of the bathroom clothed only in an artfully draped towel that made him look like he was going to a toga party with John Belushi at Animal House.

Malcolm replayed the relevant portion of the video will that had been recorded by Grandma Tucker.

"Malcolm, dear, ya need a place to put down roots, a place ya can call home, 'specially once you and Charlie get too old to go galavantin' 'mong the stars and are content just to sit on the verandah and look at 'em, so I'm gonna leave my house to ya. I wanna be clear, dear, I'm leavin' it to you, not Charlie, so if he ever does somethin' to hurt ya, somethin' ya can't forgive, ya can call the sheriff on 'im and kick 'im and his stuff to the curb." Malcolm froze the video.

"Sure ya can, Mal. It's what Grandma wanted. Ya don't want her to come back and haunt ya, do ya?"

"But it's the Tucker House. It's been in your family for generations."

"Darlin', that ring on your left hand makes ya a part of my family, a very important part of my family, even if ya didn't take my name. 'Sides, I ain't plannin' on doin' nothin' that would give ya cause to call the po-lice on me."

Of course, Grandma Tucker had known him better than he'd known himself. Several years later, when Malcolm had been promoted captain, he'd given him such grief about choosing a ship over a planetside posting to Weapons R&D that Malcolm had finally told him to leave. What was worse was that, at the time, he'd been all too happy to oblige. They'd eventually patched things up like they always did. Malcolm's peace offering had been to put Trip's name on the deed to the house. He'd planned to do it for their anniversary anyway, but he'd already be deployed by then, and if anything untoward were to happen . . . Well, he didn't want to leave Trip homeless. Trip had always regretted that he'd wasted the time he could have spent with Malcolm, time when he could have offered support and love to his husband, the fledgling captain. If the Devil came down to Georgia, what wouldn't he give to have back all the time he and Malcolm had spent - wasted - fighting?

Somehow, he found himself at his own front door without knowing exactly how he'd gotten there. He took a deep breath, unlocked the door and walked in. He wanted so badly to call out, "Hi, honey! I'm home!" like he was Ricky Ricardo or Fred Flintstone or some character from an old TV show and hear Mal call to him from their office in the den or come out of the kitchen and give him a hug and a quick kiss, his blue-gray eyes sparkling with love and life. "Never again!" For Trip, this made the house so cold that, for once, if Shran had been there, Trip was sure he couldn't have complained of the temperature.

Trip dropped his flight bag in the front hall and ambled back toward the kitchen. He was vaguely hungry. He didn't expect to find much in the cupboards or the refrigerator, and a quick survey proved his expectation to be well founded. He checked the time. It was nearly 10:00 p.m. On a Friday night, the local pizza parlor would still be going strong. He powered up the data terminal and was about to place his standing order when, for some reason, he actually read the confirmation screen and quickly hit cancel. The standing order from the Tucker-Reed house was one large Chicago-style pizza, half "The Kitchen Sink" (because it had everything on it but the kitchen sink) and half Hawaiian (Canadian bacon and pineapple) with extra pineapple and a 2-liter bottle of "Special Recipe" Coke. (All it was really was "Classic Coke", but some executive had gotten the bright idea to toy with the formula again. The resultant drink hadn't gone down well, and the company had been forced to resurrect the old standby. Would they ever learn not to fix what ain't broke?) He decided to settle for the lonely can of beer in the fridge. He popped the tab and took a swig. It would do.

He'd put off hearing Malcolm's farewell message long enough. He headed toward their office but thought better of it and went downstairs to the media room. He put the chip in the player and settled back to listen.

"Hello, love," Malcolm began. Trip immediately hit "Repeat Play" so that only those two words were repeated again and again. He got up and approached the large screen on the wall. The image projected there was nearly life size. He reached out a trembling hand and gently traced the high cheekbones, the firm jaw and the sensuous lips. "Hello, darlin'." But instead of Malcolm's warm, soft skin, he felt only the screen's cold hardness. He returned to his seat and pressed "Play."

"I believe your hero, Robert E. Lee, once said that for a general to be successful, he must love the army but not be afraid to order the death of the thing he loves. I do not fear to order the death of the fleet; indeed, I may have already done so. It is within the scope of my orders, and the sacrifice may be necessary for the protection of Earth. As you are playing this recording, I have clearly ordered my own death." Malcolm shrugged slightly. "I did not fear it, Trip, but, please believe me, neither did I actively seek it. I hope that I died honorably in the performance of my duty, that I brought no shame to you in addition to whatever grief you might feel at my passing."

"Ah jeez, Mal!" Trip cried out in exasperation and grief.

"The only thing I feared was that I had ordered your death as well. It is selfish and perhaps dishonorable for me to put you above the others, but it is the truth of things. It would give me great comfort to know that you are, indeed, playing this recording, for then I would know that by some kind providence you have survived, and perhaps many of our people as well, even though I could not protect us all, could not protect even myself."

"Rumor has it in the fleet that the commanding admiral is a paragon of virtue." Malcolm's voice had changed from sad to ironic. "It is said that despite all the temptations on all the ships, in all the space ports, on all the worlds, federated or otherwise, he has, as the vow says, 'cleaved only onto you.' That's true enough, Love, but a much too narrow definition of fidelity. It is possible to cheat in ways that are not physical, and that I have done. I have put my duty to Starfleet above my duty to you and to our marriage more times than I would care to count. You forgave me long ago, I know, and have turned a blind eye to it since, like Nelson to the signal at Copenhagen, but I am aware that my attitude and actions have caused you pain. I fear I have been a poor husband to one who has given me so much, so freely; and yet, I truly do not know how I could have lived differently. Please know that I have loved you always to the best of my ability and I beg you to once again forgive my deficiencies."

Trip hit "Stop." "Damn it all, Mal! There ain't nothin' to forgive, and even if there was, I wouldn't want ya beggin'; and I ain't been pretendin' nothin' neither. Ya know damn well I can't lie to save my ass, least of all to you. If I'd wanted somebody better'n you, if I'd even thought there was somebody better'n you, then don't ya think that's who I'd have gone after? Come on, Mal, that ain't rocket science to figure out!"

"Ya know I never disrespected your dad to your face, but I tell ya, right now, if that man was still alive but dying in an ER somewheres, I swear I'd tell 'em to keep 'im alive just long enough so's I could get there and kill 'im myself for the way he messed up your head!"

Trip sighed in frustration. "Sorry, Mal. It ain't fair blamin' it all on your dad. He only had ya for 18 years; I had ya for more than 40 all told. If anybody was a poor husband, it was me, seein' as how I couldn't convince ya what a gem ya were. I'm so sorry, baby, so sorry!"

If Trip had been more himself, he most likely would have realized that it was just Malcolm's way to start off something this important with an apology. If he had gone on to listen to the rest of the message, he would have heard Malcolm carefully enumerate the ways he had made him feel respected, valued and loved. He would have heard how Malcolm considered his example and his support to have been vital to the success of his career. He would have heard how grateful Malcolm was that he had never given up on him, had managed to break through his defenses, had helped him build a life worth living and had shared that life with him. Strangely enough, in the end, Malcolm didn't even regret the fights. He - they - had always come out stronger for their resolution. He had come to see trust as being like a muscle that needed exercise which their disagreements had provided.

If Malcolm had not been under the stress of the impending battle, perhaps it would have occurred to him that what Trip would need to hear first, in the event of his death, were the positives of their marriage. Just this once, the apology could have waited. On the other hand, considering his prior experience with a grieving Trip, perhaps he thought putting the apology first would tick Trip off enough that he would vent his anger at his loss instead of bottling it up inside. Then, and only then, could he truly appreciate and accept what he had to say of their marriage.

In any event, Trip put off hearing the rest of Malcolm's farewell message and turned instead to his personal log. Malcolm had shared his personal logs with Trip ever since his first posting as captain on the Agincourt. Trip had resisted the idea at first, feeling that he had forced Malcolm into trying to prove that he hadn't been reckless in space.

"Mal, this ain't necessary. I know ya wouldn't risk your ship and crew for no good reason. Yourself maybe, but not others. Ya always did your best for us on Enterprise. I know ya'd do the best ya could for any ship you was on. I shouldn't have thrown that in your face. I was just so aggravated. I didn't - still don't - want to lose ya, darlin'."

He remembered Malcolm's steady, thoughtful gaze and his quiet reply as he placed the data chip on his desk. "That's not why I would like you to listen to my log. Does it ever occur to you, Mr. Tucker, that I don't want to lose you, either? That even though our duties keep us apart, I would still like to share my life with you?"

Trip had eventually come to realize what an extraordinary gift Malcolm had given him. Over the years, he saw how Malcolm grew in ability and confidence as an officer as Starfleet gave him ever larger vessels and crews and ever more challenging assignments. Malcolm ran a tight ship, but a happy ship. His command style was never as easy as Trip's or Jon's, but his crews followed him out of respect for his abilities and a genuine personal regard for him. Oh, he could be Hell on wheels when the situation called for it, but it rarely did, not even when Starfleet called upon him to turn around a "troubled" ship. He stood up for his people when necessary, and they, in turn, strove to please rather than embarrass him. He enjoyed mentoring his young officers, and other captains actively sought them, particularly as weapons and tactical officers, security officers and first officers, just as they sought the top graduates of Trip's classes for their engineering sections.

Trip found he actually enjoyed reading Malcolm's tactical analyses. Malcolm always carefully considered his options, and once he formulated a plan, he stayed with it. No, Trip thought, that wasn't quite right. Battles were fluid and new opportunities often presented themselves, opportunities Malcolm was very good at exploiting. So, Malcolm's plans weren't rigid. They had a certain amount of flexibility built in. What Trip meant was that Malcolm didn't continually second guess himself. The biggest change Trip noticed, and one that pleased him immensely, was that Malcolm didn't beat himself up anymore when things went wrong. Oh, he did a careful postmortem and then readjusted his plans. As far as Trip could tell, Malcolm never made the same mistake twice, and his attitude seemed to be that if he and his people didn't succeed today, then they would tomorrow. Trip vaguely remembered hearing in some long-ago class at the Academy that that quality was what had made Ulysses Grant a great general, but he hadn't been paying close attention.

There were a couple things in Malcolm's logs that surprised him, though, especially in that first one.

"Hey, Mal, when did ya take up bein' a tour guide to the universe? I understand why ya included so much detail about the Pele'an nebula since ya had to hide in their to repair your ship after that Romulan attack, but what's with all the other star field descriptions? Ain't like we've never been there before."

"Do you remember why Grandmother Tucker left her house to us?"

"Left it to you, you mean," Trip said automatically and without malice, but he saw Malcolm stiffen and a shadow flit through his eyes. "Why the hell did I say that? He's always considered it our home. OK, so he threw me out for awhile. I had it comin' for treatin' 'im the way I did. I should have been proud of 'im gettin' his own ship. Now he's taken me back and never mentions how I hurt him, but I'm still actin' like a jerk."

"Somethin' 'bout havin' a place to sit and watch the stars when we ain't traipsin' 'round in 'em no more."

"Exactly," Malcolm said quickly. What he didn't say was that he knew he might never get the chance, but for once Trip had read the look in his eyes loud and clear.

Trip rose from behind his desk and walked around it. "So what we doin' inside jabberin' on a lovely, warm, clear night like this when we could be out there?" He offered his hand to Malcolm who took it with the sweet half smile Trip adored.

"I have no idea, Mr. Tucker."

They sat silently side by side and hand in hand as they rocked back and forth on the porch swing, each happy that they were together, each happy that the other was safe. Trip finally broke the silence. "Mal, I noticed somethin' else odd in your log."

"Something odd? Whatever do you mean, Mr. Tucker?"

"Well, I was expectin' ya to say more 'bout the weapons than ya did. Instead, ya seemed to spend an awful lot of time down in Engineerin' lookin' at the warp core. The way ya described how beautiful ya thought is was, how powerful it was, how it brought light to darkness and warmth to cold and how ya slept better when it was on-line: Damn, Mal, it was like ya were makin' love to it or somethin'. Ya sure got me revved up."

"When one is in my position, Trip, one must be discrete. I was not having an affair with the warp core. I'm much too deeply in love with a certain blond engineer with the most charmin' southron accent. Sure 'nuff, he gets my motor runnin', too." Malcolm mimicked Trip's accent and turn of phrase perfectly. "I certainly couldn't put that in my log! I'd sound like nothing so much as an adolescent schoolboy with run-away hormones. How could I expect my crew to follow me into battle if they became aware of such behavior?"

"I'll follow ya anywhere, darlin', 'specially if ya keep writin' romance novels 'bout engines."

Even in the deepening dusk, Malcolm couldn't miss the growing passion in Trip's eyes. "This revved up problem you mentioned: My limited engineering experience not related to weapons systems leads me to believe that you may be suffering from an intermix problem."

"It does, does it? Well, ya could be right 'bout that, but I was thinkin' more along the line of a problem with the injectors. Waddaya say we go in and study the problem in greater depth?"

"I thought you'd never ask, Mr. Tucker."

Malcolm's log for his final voyage was nowhere near as romantic, but not, Trip suspected, simply because he had been on board. It was as if Mal had had a premonition of his death. His last entry had spoken of his hope for victory, not just for the benefit of Earth, but for the benefit of the Federated Worlds in general. He hoped no misconduct on the part of any of his people or of the Andorians would mar their victory. He mentioned Nelson's famous message to the British fleet just prior to the battle of Trafalgar, yet he sent no such message himself. There might have been those who would have cheered it, but he knew that his people understood what he expected of them and did not need to be hit over the head with it. It was enough to simply order "Close action." And yet, in the privacy of his log, his final entry had acknowledged that "Earth expects us to do our duty, and by God's grace I shall, even to the sacrifice of my life."

The recording came to an end with Trip sitting, head in hands, sobbing. Everyone had had expectations for Malcolm to live up to, many of them unrealistic, starting with dad. Stuart had wanted his son to rise to flag rank in the Royal Navy, to be a fighting admiral in the mold of Nelson, to succeed where he had failed. He had made his love and respect contingent upon achieving those goals. He never grasped that times and objectives had changed, that only in space could Malcolm hope to exhibit "the Nelson touch." Jon had expected Malcolm to keep Enterprise and its crew safe but had often blithely disregarded his recommendations much to their peril. With the best of intentions, Trip himself had expected Malcolm to put his own safety ahead of duty for the sake of their marriage. In the end, a whole world had expected Malcolm to somehow keep it safe. Malcolm just keep shouldering the burdens on his slender frame until they had crushed him from the outside and their conflicting demands had torn him apart from the inside. All Malcolm had really wanted was to be respected, valued and loved. Such simple, basic things. All Trip had wanted to do was to fulfill those needs, but he had failed time and again and would never get another chance.

He stumbled upstairs and took the case containing the flag that had covered Malcolm's coffin from his flight bag. He returned to the media room. There was already a video in the player, although he couldn't remember what they had been watching before they'd reported to the Victory. He hit "Play."

It's still the same old story
A fight for love and glory
A case of do or die.
The world will always welcome lovers
As time goes by.

They'd been watching Casablanca. Trip hugged the flag case to his chest and cried himself to sleep.