A/N: Ok, the very last chapter, and this is one of completely unabashed fluffiness after all the pain, torture and angst I have put our characters through. My sincere thanks to my long-suffering readers and reviewers, I hope you've enjoyed this little diversion as much as I have!

Sunshine: Here you go – hope it "brightens up" your day… =)

Seacook: You just planted a little plot bunny… watch out for it in future fics (I'm glutton for punishment, and Malcolm and Henny are too cute to give up after one story), but I hope this happy ending is sufficient to satisfy you!

masqueradewitch: Glad you're enjoying it! Hope you like the last chapter.

Disclaimer: I own nothing apart from the Quartermasters' crew… for whom I have many future plans, so watch this space!

Chapter Sixteen

Wedding Bells

Three months later.

Malcolm made one last nervous tug at his suit before ringing the doorbell. A crewman walking past – also in dress clothes rather than uniform – gave him a wink, to which he responded with a tight smile. He wasn't entirely sure if he would ever get used to that.

"Come in!"

He pressed the door release, and paused on the threshold of Henny's quarters. She was bent over her desk, her room in disarray and a set of hairpins spread across the tabletop as she pulled back lock after lock of hair. Her dress was pale blue with a scooped collar and Malcolm could not help but feel suddenly self-conscious of his own attire, a suit that was a little too loose for him in some places and a little too tight in others as a symptom of having been inherited from a slightly taller cousin during the paucity of his Starfleet training years.

"You look… wonderful." He said, stepping up behind her and placing his hands on her waist. He kissed her ear gently. "Hmm. Careful you don't outshine the bride, Henny."

Hair finished, Henny turned round to face him, and placed her arms around his neck.

"You haven't seen Miranda's dress yet." She leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. Malcolm felt his every sense sharpen to the sensation of her body – for once not constricted in a uniform – against his and pulled away hastily. Her lips quirked. "What's the matter?"

He gave an ironic smile.

"If we carry on like that much more, we won't get to the church on time." He breathed in deeply. She was wearing an unfamiliar perfume, but it suited her – floral, with a slightly sharp, tangy edge. She cast him a devilish look.

"Well that all depends how quick you are, doesn't it, Lieutenant?"

888

On the way to the Mess Hall – the corridor to which had magically been transformed into a tunnel of silk flowers by the diligent work of the crewmen of the ship, all of whom were devoted to the motherly Miranda Heron – they met Catherine and Jill, both of whom were wearing the same dress as Henny but not, Malcolm privately thought, quite as well, and Henny kissed Malcolm on the cheek.

"I'd best go collect the bride." She leaned closer. "You look pretty good in that suit… although you look good out of it, too."

And with that she left him, cheeks blazing, alone in the middle of the corridor. Not for long, however, as he felt a hand clap his shoulder and glanced round to see the grinning face of Trip Tucker.

"All well for the lovebirds, then?"

Malcolm snorted.

"Which ones?"

"Ah… the bride an' groom of course. I don't need ta ask after you two." Trip cast a knowing eye at Malcolm's slightly skewed bow tie, which he hastily straightened. They entered the mess hall – now a wedding hall – in companionable silence, and Malcolm nodded cordially at the white-faced Ryan Tiller standing at the front beside the Captain, smart and beaming in his dress uniform. Tiller, Malcolm had learned, was a kindly man despite his gruff exterior – although such outward reticence was certainly something he himself could understand anyway – and hugely protective of Henny, as he had learned when, some weeks into their relationship, Tiller had approached him in the Mess Hall and informed him in no uncertain terms that, officer or no, black belt in karate or no, he would find himself in a very precarious physical position if he "messed around with our Henny".

Their relationship. It was a strange position to be in. He had never imagined that, over a half a decade into serving on Enterprise he would find the type of partnership he had always thought he had sacrificed when he chose the life of a officer in deep space. Or the life of an officer full-stop. He could still remember, he mused as they took their seats, the intensely awkward conversation with Captain Archer the day after Henny's night-time visit – and night-time stay – in his quarters. They had not spoken about it, but Malcolm knew, as he felt he had known little before, that if ever there was a chance he could not let slip by, it was a chance to sleep peacefully in his bed, with her beside him, every night. He had gone to the Bridge that morning intensely nervous, but before he had found the chance to get a moment alone with the Captain, Archer himself had asked him to come into his ready room. He must have looked like a schoolboy afraid of being told off, for Archer had smiled and looked to the heavens.

"Relax, Malcolm. I just wanted to tell you that we've had a communication from the Clendavin homeworld."

This had seemed like a total non sequitur considering that all his mind had been filled with was Henny, and Malcolm had struggled for a moment before remembering that, on his return to Enterprise, Archer had promised sternly that he would be sending a very strongly-worded communique to the Clendavins about their allegedly planet-bound technology and their erstwhile rebels.

"Sir?"

Archer had handed him a PADD, which he held limply.

"They're hugely apologetic." He gave a snort. "Apparently they think that this neighbouring planet have been giving the rebels aid – and, it would seem, lifts to their world – in order to stir up unrest among the Clendavins. Intra-solar politics at its worst." He shrugged. "They seem to think you were just caught in the cross-fire."

Malcolm thought that perhaps the term "cross-fire" was a little weak considering the systematic cruelty that they had experienced at the hands of the Clendavin freedom-fighters, but he had held his tongue. He needed, after all, a Captain in a good mood for what he intended to ask next. He had opened his mouth to change the subject, but his vocal cords lost their courage at the last moment and formed very different words to his original intention.

"And I assume these 'rebels' will be given justice?"

Archer had held his gaze, and sighed. There were many different types of justice, and both of them knew that the clear luxury of the Clendavin ruling class compared to the poverty of the rebels they had met in the caves was not one of them.

"He didn't say." Archer had paused, and Malcolm felt his heart beat a little faster. "Was there anything else, Malcolm?"

For a moment he had considered shaking his head and leaving, but he was possessed by a sudden recklessness, and he took the seat Archer had ushered him to when he first entered but which he had refused, preferring instead to stand. Then he had leaned forward and nodded.

"There was, actually, Captain." He had started. No going back, then.

Archer had cocked his head to one side, looking curious.

"Go on."

"It's about… Crewman Mackie." Malcolm had paused, well aware of how ridiculous he would sound. And, possibly, how very unprofessional. "I would like permission to… court her."

Archer's lips had quirked, but upwards, not downwards, and Malcolm felt a flash of relief and even hope.

"'Court her', Malcolm? Do I look like her father?"

Malcolm pursed his lips.

"No, sir, but I am well aware that such… overtures on my part would be in direct contravention of several Starfleet regulations."

There had been a long silence, then, Malcolm remembered as more people filed into the Mess Hall for the ceremony, although he hardly saw them, lost in his own recollections. Then Archer had leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes briefly and then looking back at Malcolm with a curious smile.

"Malcolm, did you know there is a law – in England, actually – which states that no one in the country is allowed to eat mince pies on Christmas Day? I think Cromwell passed it, but it's still part of the rule book and, strictly speaking, it's still illegal."

Once again, Malcolm had felt himself lost by the sudden change of topic.

"Yes, sir, but I don't really see how -"

"Hang on there, Malcolm." Archer interrupted. "What I'm trying to say is… there are the rules that are written down, and then there are the rules that are followed. Do you see what I'm saying?"

Malcolm certainly did, and his eyes widened. He let out a breath he did not know he had been holding.

"I – yes, I believe I do, sir. Thankyou, sir."

"Absolutely." Archer had looked up then, his smile wider. "Good luck then, Malcolm."

And Malcolm Reed had exited the Captain's Ready Room, hardly able to believe his luck.

And, he reflected, pulling himself back to the present as the crowd suddenly hushed and a slow, stately piece of music piped through the intercom, his luck hadn't ended there. He had, at the age of thirty-five, made the massive presumption of asking a pretty young crewman of twenty-three on a 'date' – God, he hadn't even used that word for a decade, at least – and she had accepted. Now, three months on, they were the second-most talked-about 'item' on the ship (after Crewmen Tiller and Heron, shortly to become Tiller and Tiller), and Malcolm was just about becoming used to the attention from all areas of the crew – some, as with the crewman outside Henny's quarters, supportive, joking, and others, on the part of younger men aboard who felt jealously that his rank had given him an advantage in the case of young Henny, aggressive. He had rare moments of doubt himself, when he wondered if he was doing the right thing, and occassional crippling nights when his ingrained belief in the regulations led him to guilty internal arguments, but the one thing he was sure of throughout was Henny.

He smiled at her as the entered, now, behind Miranda, resplendent in a shamelessly deep red dress. Malcolm chuckled as he cast an eye at Tiller and saw his pale cheeks suddenly fill with colour – a dark blush almost to match his wife-to-be's dress.

Archer smiled at them both as they reached the front of the hall, and nodded for the crew to sit.

"Crewmen and women of the Starship Enterprise, we are gathered here today…"

888

At the reception afterwards both wine (a rich bouquet supplied courtesy of the apologetic Clendavins a few months before and saved for the occassion) and speeches flowed freely, and as she was sitting on the top table between a deliriously happy Miranda and a morosely single Catherine, Henny barely got the chance to speak to Malcolm all night. After watching Miranda and Ryan enjoy their first dance together, and then leading the next with Ryan himself as Miranda danced happily with the Captain, Henny separated herself from the throng and scanned the edges of the hall – where Malcolm would surely be lurking – for her partner. Sure enough, there he was, leaning against a wall and looking a little distracted. His hair – not as stiffly combed as usual – was falling down into his eyes. Henny liked it that way, and she was about to cross the room to tell him so when she noticed a situation into which outside intervention might be required. Billy bumping into Annan at the drinks table and Annan turning in disgust. Billy began to turn away, his expression hurt.

Henny marched across to them, grabbed each young man by a shoulder and spun them to face each other.

"Boys," she said sternly, "this has gone on long enough. Why can't you just make up?"

And it had been going on too long. Annan's furious reaction to the revelation of Billy's homosexuality, which the whole Store had thought would cool after a few weeks, had if anything grown over time, and Miranda had been forced to put Annan onto the night shift to avoid him leaving Billy on the verge of tears every time he snubbed him when they were working together. At her pronouncement, however, Annan simply folded his arms and scowled.

"I shared a room with him for five years, Henny," he spat out at last. "I walked around naked!"

"Yes!" The usually quiet Billy suddenly burst out, shaking Henny's grip from his shoulder. She stepped back slightly, suddenly a little unsure of the wisdom of disrupting the proverbial can of worms in the midst of such an event. They were already drawing glances from surrounding crewmembers. Henny's only comfort was that Miranda and Tiller were too deeply ensconsed in one another's arms by that point to notice anything short of a riot occurring at their reception. "And did you ever stop to think what that did to me, you inconsiderate bastard!"

There was a silence, and a few shocked gasps from around them, revealing the eavesdroppers who now attempted to look discreetly away, blushing at being caught out by their own reactions. Then, quite to Henny's surprise and definitely to Billy's, if his open-mouthed expression was anything to go by, Annan let out a short bark of laughter. Then he shook his head.

"Billy," he said, looking frustrated, "we were friends. For five years. I don't get it!"

"We could be friends again!" He shook his head, looking angry – incredibly so, in fact, for Billy. "Damnit, Annan, I never knew I'd meet anyone more bigoted than my parents about all this!"

Henny however, suddenly realised something. She could scarcely believe it, for if it was the case then men were even more foolish than she had always suspected them to be.

"Annan," she said slowly, "is your real problem not with Billy's… ah… but rather with the fact that he never told you?"

Annan didn't reply, but looked silently at Billy, upon whose face a slow realisation dawned. Henny nodded, and quietly withdrew, leaving them to it.

As she approached Malcolm she saw that he had been watching her, and he smiled and pulled her into a hug.

"Well done, my girl." He said. "I was about to go knock their heads together, but you beat me to it."

Henny laughed, then, noting the slightly rueful expression on his face as he was forced to tilt his head slightly upwards to look at her, leant against the wall with one hand and removed her high heels with the others. She waved them casually.

"They were killing me, anyway." Now it was Malcolm's turn to laugh, and he squeezed her shoe-free hand.

"Thankyou, Henny."

888

"Care for a dance?" Jill Derner looked up from her solitary study of her empty wine-glass, and was surprised to see that the man propositioning her was none other than the Captain – looking, she couldn't help but notice, somewhat dapper in his dress uniform. As the formal officiator of the wedding ceremony, he had worn full Starfleet regalia, although he had given Tiller leave to wear a suit instead of his usual, admittedly grease-stained uniform. Jill glanced around, feeling oddly girlish and nervous. Almost everyone was dancing by this point – even Catherine, looking rapturously joyful to be in the arms of a burly member Lieutenant Reed's security team. Derner was sure that jokes would ensue on Monday regarding the Store team's penchant for armoury officers. Even Annan was dancing – and here Jilly had to make a double-take – with a self-deprecating smile on his face, with Billy.

Jill Derner looked back up at the Captain, who was standing quietly awaiting her answer. She held out her hands, palms up.

"I would be very pleased to indeed, Captain."

888

As he had that morning in the Captain's ready room, Malcolm could feel his heart hammering in his chest, although it skipped a beat every few seconds now, it seemed. Henny looked at him curiously, laying a hand on his shoulder.

"You look deep in thought."

"Hmm." Malcolm swallowed. He had been thinking about it all through the ceremony, and, although he felt ridiculously nervous, he was as sure as he had been three months ago, asking the Captain for permission to 'court' Henny, that he would regret it forever if he let this opportunity pass by. It was a little soon, perhaps, to be true, but –

"Malcolm?" She looked concerned now, a crease appearing between her eyes. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yes." He said, at last, aware that his voice was lower and – he admitted it to himself – shakier than usual. Blinking a few times, he reached out and took her hand, her right hand, cradling it in his own. He could still see the line of slightly paler skin around her fourth finger where her mother's ring had once sat, and he remembered briefly how he had replaced it there, the night after their first – the first of many, as it had turned out – conversation in his quarters and after Crewman Manning had thrown it at him in misplaced ire. Although he had surprised himself by the gesture, it had felt perfectly right and natural to do so. Now he thought he knew why. "Henny," he said slowly, still keeping ahold of her hand but looking up into her face. Her lips were slightly parted and her head was cocked to one side, "Henny."

He looked back down at her hands, and closed his eyes briefly. If he had fought Klingons, he must surely have courage for this. But this required a different kind of courage.

"Henny," he said at last, softly, the sounds of dancing and laughter around them seemingly insignificant, "I know that I can never – give you back your mother's ring, but, if you like…" He trailed off, then took one last deep breath. "Henny, will you do me the honour of letting me replace that ring with another one?"

Finis.

A/N: Go on… give one last review! And what are people's views on… a sequel?