A/N: And here it is – my favourite chapter so far, but not the one with Trip's quarters, unfortunately. This chapter has undergone a few edits since I first wrote it – mainly that I've taken out one sub-plot to prevent tying my own brain in absolute knots – so I hope it stands up to scrutiny!

To my reviewers:

Lady Rainbow: Well, any woman who could ever put up with Malcolm Reed would have to be pretty well-versed in sarcasm, wouldn't she? LOL, glad you're enjoying the story!

volley: Wow – glad you liked it! And yes, you've finally taught me to update regularly – now I'd better keep it up! Thanks for reviewing!

burrcat213: Oh dear, I hope you're feeling better! Thanks for reviewing, enjoy chapter six!

Sita Z: Don't worry! I promise that the chapter involving Trip's cabin is coming up very soon – especially since it seems to have become one of the main selling points of this story! Thanks for reviewing – enjoy this chapter!

Begoogled: Who could write a sickbay scene without mentioning the slugs? They're main characters! Lol – thanks for your review.

Han: I don't think you can beam people out of caves due to the high ore content. At least you can't in this story, lol! Thanks for reviewing!

General Kunama: Lol, it takes a special sense of humour to find slugs funny. Having spent my childhood teasing my brother about hating slugs, I love it! Thanks for the review, enjoy chapter six!

Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with Enterprise, and have never even tasted scotch, so I can't really make any claim to the bones upon which this story or even this chapter is built. Sorry!

Chapter Six

Conversation Pieces

The second five returned an hour or so later, after an uncomfortable but extremely profitable discussion with the chagrined alien who had unwittingly led them into the ambush in the caves. Jill Derner still felt like rolling her eyes at the mere memory of his explanations:

"Our society has recently undergone a... socialist revolution." The alien had said, its tentacles flushing a muddy brown colour. "Some do not appreciate the idea of the... ah... sharing of commodities within the community." No, Derner had thought, mentally comparing the lush gowns of even the guards with the tattered rags in which their assailants had been dressed. "Our monarchy no longer exists!" The creature had added, as though this defended what had happened. Even Derner, who had worked with the Captain but a handful of times (she had been a student of both cultural studies and art, which meant that she had been called upon to design and create passable 'costumes' for the rare times when Enterprise made an undercover mission to a pre-warp world), could tell by the thinning of his lips and the muscle working in his jaw that he was trying extremely hard to refrain from commenting at this point. Tiller, however, had no such qualms:

"What do we care about your blimmin' monarchy when we've almost all been shot to death?" He had said, glaring belligerently at the alien, his hand still gripping Heron's arm. "We almost died today! Would have, if it ha'nt been for our Henny's quick thought!"

The captain had shot Tiller a quelling look, and the alien had gone on to offer whatever commodities the Enterprise required – free – to compensate them for their experience. Archer had, grudgingly (thinking perhaps that the portly and officious alien had suffered enough), then taken his leave of the planet with a promise to have one of his officers compile a database on Earth history for the Clendavins to peruse. The creature's tentacles had perked up wondrously, and Jill even thought she had caught what seemed like a smile from its puckered mouth before the planet – and the alien – glimmered out of sight.

So now they were back, and Jill had never felt so glad to smell the distinct scene of cleaning fluid that, for her, filled almost every waking hour. It seemed that Catherine (it wasn't likely to be Henson, she thought, before clamping his name from her mind) had been on a cleaning spree in their absence. She glanced across at her fellows, and saw that Heron, so calm and collected on the planet, was suddenly very pale.

"M'randa..." Tiller was, of course, by her side, and Derner watched, wondering if the inevitable would finally happen.

"You should go to sickbay, let Phlox check you out," Archer said, and Derner was sure by the slight smile on his face that he noticed the open concern on Tiller's face too. "Crewman, could you escort her?"

"Aye sir." Tiller nodded formally, and began to walk Heron down the corridor, placing his arm firmly round her waist for good measure. Heron paused and looked back.

"But sir, there's work to be -"

"Don't worry, Quartermaster." Archer interrupted, and Derner raised an eyebrow. So the Captain understood enough about their below-decks family to call Heron by the one title which would soften her to do anything. He must have caught her look, for he shrugged slightly once the pair were round the corner. Derner stood, wondering if she should ask to be dismissed, or if she should say – something – before leaving for her quarters and, hopefully, a good sleep. She settled for the latter.

"Thankyou, sir." She said, and Archer looked at her, his brown eyes closing for a moment in bemusement.

"What for?"

"For protecting me. Down on the planet." She paused. "It was very... gallant of you."

Archer's lips quirked upwards, briefly.

"Don't mention it." He paused, then added (extremely generously, Derner thought); "You did very well too, under the circumstances."

Derner was astonished to find that she blushed at his statement, and became all at once aware of the utter state in which she was in. Her hair was plastered across areas of her face from which it was usually mercilessly barred through the use of hairclips and spray, her uniform was covered in dust and other substances about which she did not wish to ask, and she could feel the adrenaline that had sustained her for the past hour beginning to wear off, leaving her drained and more than a little shaky. Her nerves, and nothing else, were surely the reason that a kind comment from her (undeniably attractive, a voice in her head whispered, but she quelled it immediately) much older commanding officer.

"Thankyou, sir," she said at last, searching for something more to say, but all words and all thoughts suddenly vanished as she turned at the sound of running feet to be met with the sight of Annan Henson, his pale face flushed, his hair flying in every direction, and his eyes wide and haunted.

"Jilly! Are you alright?" He had stopped, gasping for air, barely a foot away from her. At the corner of her eye, Jill saw the Captain smile slightly and tactfully make a discreet exit. She looked at Henson, unsure of what to say, until she realised that for the first time in months he had called her Jilly.

"Yes, Annan." She said. "I'm alright."

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He had been released from sickbay (thank god) with nothing more than a prescription of painkillers, a new scar, and a slight limp that, Phlox assured him, would fade within a few days. He was writing his report at his desk when the ring of the bell interrupted him, and he paused before answering, knowing as he did who it would – or might be. There was a chance, of course, that it was Tucker, congratulating him on escaping death yet again, but Trip usually walked right in, unannounced, unless he knew the away mission had been especially traumatic. This one hadn't been – not for him, at least.

"Come in," he said, and felt a slight twinge of pride as his guess was proven right by the silhouette of Crewman Mackie's slim figure in his doorway. The twinge, however, was soon superseded by a greater one of guilt when, as she stepped into the light of quarters, looking somewhat wary, he recognised the lines of guilty sleeplessness graven into her too-young face. She held a box out before her.

"I – I brought some more charge packs. For the pistols." He took the box from her, hearing well enough the slight catch in her voice before the word 'pistols'.

"Have a seat." He nodded towards the bed and, after a hesitation, she took it, the door swishing to a close as she stepped fully into the room. He turned away from her, back to his desk, flicking the catches on the strong-box open. He was disappointed, but unsurprised, at what he found inside. He picked one of the charge packs up, his accustomed eye picking out every fumble, every poor piece of welding, and realised that he would have to do something that most certainly was not in his job description – act as counsellor to a girl who, through no fault of her own, had returned from the away mission with scars far more difficult to treat than the physical. He turned to her, watching in silence as she fiddled with a ring on the index finger of her left hand, looking ill at ease and out of place, perched on the edge of his bed. Her feet hovered ever-so-slightly off the floor, moving in a nervous rhythm, beating every now and then against the deckplates as though in an effort to split the silence.

"This work is shoddy, Crewman." He said at last, and her eyes widened slightly.

"I -"

"Don't." He held out a hand to stop her and she did, her lips pressed together in confusion, and, Malcolm thought – anger. He leant back in his chair, closing his eyes briefly. Give him a misaligned targeting scanner any day... "I'm sorry for what happened on the planet's surface, Crewman."

Her brave joviality of earlier had been but a front, he knew this well enough – he had the feeling that she was usually a merry sort, and used her smile as the same kind of shield as he usually used his silence. Both were effective, but only up to a point.

Anger flashed in the crewman's face, and prettiness contorted in the unnatural lines of guilt and blame.

"Yes." She said. "So am I." She paused, then burst out; "Why did you take so long to give me the pistol? You bloody fool!"

He let the words ring, and after a moment her eyes widened and she rose, her hand to her mouth.

"Oh – god – I didn't -" she made for the door but he reached out swiftly and held her by the wrist.

"Don't." He said softly, before releasing her hand. She sighed and sat back down on the bed, running a hand through already-flyaway hair. "Do you mind me asking – your name?"

A rather rueful smile crossed her face.

"Henrietta." She said. "But – everyone calls me Henny." She shook her head. "My parents clearly didn't like me much."

Malcolm laughed, feeling suddenly self-conscious of the lack of family pictures that he had on his walls.

"I know the feeling," he said, touching his chest with a nod, "Malcolm."

Henny rolled her eyes.

"I know. You do know that we talk about you lot downstairs, don't you?"

You lot. Downstairs. The language of the servants talking about their 'upstairs' counterparts. Malcolm shook the unnerving image from his mind asked;

"So, why a crewman? From what I've seen, you'd make a damned fine officer." And from her shooting, a damned fine security officer, but he doubted she would be wanting to pick up a gun again any time soon.

"It takes four years training to become an officer," she reminded him, "and there's an old myth that it's easier to become an Ensign once you're actually on a starship. Of course," she shrugged, "that's been proved wrong, hasn't it?"

Reed nodded. The old myth – older than starships, anyway. His father, who had joined the navy as a ship's boy, took great pride in having vindicated that myth in going from rankless skivvy to decorated ship's captain. Pushing such memories from his mind, he flashed the still ill-at-ease Henny a brief smile.

"Now," he said, bending down at reaching into his bottom drawer, "I'm going to seriously violate regulations. I hope you'll forgive me." With a wink (which he instantly regretted – if acting counsellor to young women wasn't in his job description, winking at them most certainly wasn't) he placed two glasses on the desk, half-filling one and filling the other almost to the top. He handed Henny the larger one, which she took with a slight shake of her head.

"Don't worry, Lieutenant." She said. "You don't think that, having cleaned your cabin and changed your bedding for the last four years, I don't know what kind of things you have hidden in your bottom drawer?"

Malcolm felt a slight heat rising just around his collar, and coughed awkwardly. He was recognising again the wisdom of not fraternising with subordinates – if they were at the very bottom rung, then chances were they knew too much about you already. Henny laughed again, taking a gulp of the amber liquid – whisky, though not the best, for Reed sensed that quantity and not quality was going to be the issue here – and added;

"And anyway, it's an unwritten rule on any ship that you've got to have a secret stash. I favour wine, myself, but there are some who are in favour of bringing back the old naval tradition – you know, a tot of rum every day to keep the blood burning."

"I know," Malcolm said softly, "I know a lot about naval tradition."

Henny said nothing, but held his gaze for a moment longer than was comfortable before returning to a study of her glass. They drank in silence for a time, whilst Malcolm wondered wryly whether such methods would be approved by Starfleet. He didn't have a sofa and he knew he'd make an awful psychiatrist, so he supposed they would have to do with a Starfleet-issue mattress and a glass or two of his most potent alcohol. Unprofessional? Perhaps. But the fact remained that he owed a debt to the girl (woman, he thought, for whilst she was young she was not a child – at least not after today) and that, whilst duty and honour often overlapped, in the cases where they didn't the latter was usually the most important to adhere to.

"You did what you had to, Henny." He said, her name waking her from her daze and surprising him with how strange it felt on his lips. To give her her name was to make the first overture to a thing closer to friendship than mere comradeship. It had taken him weeks to go from "Commander Tucker" to "Trip", after all. "Sometimes the best course of action is still one that seems... morally unacceptable." Even as he spoke he winced. He was preaching. What else could he do? Tell her that he – "I'm sorry." He said. "I'm not making myself clear. What I mean is – I know. How it feels." He did, but that didn't mean he was wildly eager to talk about it. Henny turned her eyes, dark and verging just on the desperate, to him.

"Does it get better?" She stopped, then said: "I keep seeing their faces! And a part of me feels that they were only doing what they had to – so how can what I did ever be right?"

He hesitated. The truth would be more painful than lies, but the truth had far more power to sustain, if not comfort, than a few flimsy words would in the long run.

"When I'm up on the bridge," he began carefully, "and the captain gives the order to fire on another ship -"

"That's not -" Henny began to protest, but he cut her off.

"I know it's not. But when I fire on another ship, I know that in doing so, more often than not, my actions will cause men to die. But I can't see them." He paused. He had wondered over this himself, many times, and had never come up with a satisfactory answer for himself. How then to explain to someone else? "I think that when you see their face, it gives them more reality than it does if you hadn't. You see a face and you mentally add a life, a family to that person."

Henny nodded, then, with a grimace, chucked back the remainder of her glass. Malcolm was impressed despite himself. He gave a smile as he refilled her glass.

"You can hold your drink well." He said, and she shrugged, a small smile playing across her face.

"I did go to college, you know, even if I didn't attend officer training."

"Ah. Alright."

There was another silence, but this time it was a far more companionable one, and Malcolm realised that, ridiculous though it was, he was in fact the most qualified person to speak to Henny about what had happened on the planet. She didn't want answers – she wanted someone to tell her she wasn't alone.

"Yes," he said at last, very softly, placing his glass to one side, "it does get better. Not instantly, and not completely, but in a week or a month or three months your emotions will lessen and you'll accept that what you did was for the best." It was poorly put, he knew: the crewman had realised already that she had done the only thing she could, but there was a difference between realising and accepting.

Henny gave him a smile, not as wide or as bright as those he had chanced to receive before the away mission, but still a smile. And, whilst she was still fiddling with her ring, it was in a manner that implied relaxation rather than perturbation.

"Thankyou," she said, then glanced at the chronometer on his desk. Her eyes widened. She rose hastily. "I should go."

Malcolm nodded, standing too, somewhat self-conscious at the half-amused look which crossed her face at his old-fashioned gesture.

"Goodnight." He said, and she nodded, tapping the door panel.

"Night." She stepped out of the room, and the door hissed to a close behind her. Malcolm turned back to his report, his mind eased but a little by the conversation of the last hour. At least a few of the pained lines had left Henrietta Mackie's face, but he had a feeling they would not be fully forgotten for a long time.

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A/N: So? What do you think? Please review and tell me!