It was getting towards the middle of Beta shift, and there weren't many people about. However, just as he turned the corner to his own quarters he saw Trip, who had apparently been pressing the chime beside his door but was just on the point of turning away.

Things were still somewhat strained between himself and his ex-Chief Engineer. As they were both now off duty they were wearing leisure clothes, but though Trip's T-shirt bore no other decoration than a surfing motif, Jon still seemed to see that alien patch on his left sleeve.

"I was wonderin' if Enterprise was turnin' into some kind of Marie Celeste," the other man said, mustering an awkward smile. "Malcolm's not answerin' hails and you weren't here either. Anything goin' on that I should … no, cancel that." It was written all over his face: I'm not one of your officers anymore. I don't have any right to know anything.

The captain pulled his own mouth into something approximating a smile in return. "Malcolm and I had some … some things that needed to get sorted. He's pretty tired now. I'd just let him sleep, if I were you."

Time had been when that kind of statement would have drawn forth a ribald riposte. Now, the absence of so much as a flicker of amusement was another burden on Jon's already aching shoulders.

The friendship between the two of them went way back, had its foundations before Enterprise's keel had been laid. It had held steady through everything until that damned encounter with the Vissians, and he'd have sworn it could stand against anything, but it hadn't stood against the calamity that had resulted. Two factors – his own absence from his ship, plus Trip's own fatally misguided sense of chivalry, both harmless in themselves but catastrophic in combination – had led to the suicide of a Vissian cogenitor and the rupture of a potential alliance that could have had enormous benefits for mankind.

It was unthinkable that such an incident wouldn't affect even the most deep-rooted of friendships. For some time afterwards they'd treated each other with a formality that did nothing to hide or heal their mutual misery. The happy evenings with beer and televised water-polo were a thing of the past; when basketball tournaments were staged in which Trip would be taking part, Jon pleaded the pressures of paperwork. Neither of them had been willing to make the first move to heal the rupture. Maybe they'd both been hoping that somehow things would work themselves back to normal over the everyday business of the voyage.

And then there had come the Xindi. The death of Trip's baby sister had changed him into a bitter, vengeful man, channeling his grief into the desire to hit back at those who had done this dreadful thing. Over the course of the hunt for the weapon the gulf between them had closed perforce, becoming a thing that would have to wait its time, but it hadn't gone away. It probably never would go away, not completely – but even so, Trip's sudden request for a transfer to Columbia some months after the resumption of their voyage of exploration had come as a hammer-blow. They'd never gotten things sorted out between them and now, it seemed, they never would. Trip wouldn't even tell him the reason for the request; maybe, somehow, if he'd just been honest enough to do that they could have sorted at least some of their differences.

But it was not to be. And now, witnessing the engineer's abrupt withdrawal from the friendly informality which had once been second nature to him, Jon found himself wondering all over again if he'd failed this officer as badly as he'd failed the one he'd left unconscious back in T'Pol's quarters. His once easy confidence in himself as the ship's captain was no longer the unthinking thing it had been. In hindsight, on too many occasions he'd acted like an arrogant fool – and the fact that the ship had survived had been more due to the wisdom and courage of her officers and crew than to her captain.

What would Trip think if he knew what had happened tonight? He and Malcolm had become close friends over the course of their voyage, a friendship that seemed somehow to have survived more or less intact in spite of the stresses and strains imposed on it by the Expanse and the whole Xindi thing. That, no doubt, was why he'd been trying to page him; probably with some thought that the two of them could share a few beers before Trip returned to Columbia.

Had he come here in search of his missing buddy, or… As the ship's acting Chief Engineer, he could have accessed the computer to find out where Reed was if he'd been seriously worried. So it couldn't be that, not entirely. Maybe he'd thought Malcolm and he were sharing a few beers – the thought would have brought a wry smile to Jon's face if the circumstances had been different. It was hard to imagine a less comfortable situation than that one would be, for himself or for his unfortunate tactical officer. The sundering of the friendship with his old comrade had left a void, but Reed wasn't the man to fill it.

So, he hadn't come here expecting to find Malcolm. What other reason could have brought him? It wasn't like he and his ex-captain were exactly on chatting terms.

A silence had fallen. Jon and Trip stared at each other through it, while too many things that needed to be said went unsaid yet again.

Finally, the younger man turned away with a small, helpless gesture of one hand. "I just wanted … aw, forget it. It's nothing."

"No." Jon stepped forward almost involuntarily, thrusting out one arm, though he didn't touch. "Trip, don't. Just talk to me."

A strained smile, one that held a measure of bitterness. "Not sure what there is to talk about, Cap'n."

Another couple of steps closed the gap between them. Somewhat to Jon's surprise, Trip didn't back away, but his look said all too plainly that he didn't welcome the gesture either.

"We can't talk out here. Come into my cabin. Please. Just for a couple of minutes." He wanted to say You owe me that much, but he wasn't sure it was true.

The engineer hesitated for a long moment; then he shrugged. It wasn't obvious whether this was because he didn't think it could do any harm, or whether he just didn't give a damn. But either way, when the captain touched the door control he followed him inside.

Porthos alone was unaffected by the tension. He was already waiting just inside the door, evidently alerted by the sound of voices outside. He greeted the visitor with his tail wagging so hard that his entire hindquarters wagged with it.

"Hey, boy, did you miss me, huh?" Trip went down on one knee, cupping the little dog's head in his hands while Porthos uttered ecstatic little growls of excited welcome and did his best to lick his face.

He sure as hell wasn't the only one. But Jon couldn't say that. In silence he went to the fixture where he kept his stash of bourbon, and took out two glasses. He couldn't remember the last time it had been two. Lately it had just been one, and he'd noticed too late how often it was happening that he'd found refuge at the bottom of a glass.

Trip accepted a glass with a couple of fingers of bourbon in it, and sat down carefully on the edge of the bed.

Jon sat down as well, keeping a distance between them. Maybe Trip had been right, and there really was nothing to say, for the silence stretched out painfully, broken only by interested canine snuffling as the dog explored the smells on the newcomer's clothes.

"So we're headed for the Berengarius system," the other man said at last, awkwardly, pulling Porthos's ears gently as the dog laid his head on his knees.

"Checking it out for the site of a new starbase." There was another silence, while probably both of them tried to think of things that could be said about establishing a new starbase.

"Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all." Trip tossed back the bourbon and stood. "Cap'n, I'm guessin' once Columbia's officially launched they'll arrange a rendezvous to take me off. I'll keep out of your way as much as I can till then."

"Trip, I'm sorry about Charles."

The words stopped the engineer in his tracks. For a long minute he just stared at the door, and then he turned around and subjected his ex-captain to a long, hostile stare. "Well, it took you long enough to get around to that."

There were enough justifications he could have produced, excuses he could have made, but that didn't matter here. "I know."

"So. Sorry for what?" Trip inquired, leaning against the door and folding his arms. "Sorry for refusin' a plea for asylum because you didn't want to upset your new buddy? Sorry the poor sap you sent back to be a pet decided they didn't want to put up with that kind of life? Sorry you offloaded the whole damn thing on to me? Because I'm not pretendin' I wasn't in the wrong doin' what I did, and god knows I've wished every day since I'd had the sense to stay out of it – because if I had, Charles would still be alive. But you weren't any goddamn saint either. Charles' death was down to both of us, Jon. Not just me.

"I've thought about it a lot since then. About what you said … and what you did. I understand all about the non-interference thing. But 'We can't save humanity without holdin' on to what makes us human'… that's what you said to T'Pol, wasn't it? But 'far as I understand it, humans, the best humans, don't just turn their heads and look the other way when they see injustice. What the Vissians did to their cogenitors wasn't just a 'social convention', it was wrong. Just plain wrong.

"Yeah. You were right. I didn't have any right to interfere and I went about it all the wrong way. But we sure as heck didn't have the right to just accept it, like nobody was gettin' harmed. We could have at least said something. But you didn't want to, just like you didn't want to admit Charles deserved asylum, because you just didn't wanna rock the boat. You didn't make a moral judgment, Jon; that was a political call, plain and simple."

Half of being a starship captain's about making political calls, Trip. How the heck do you think I've gotten us to the stage where we can broker deals between the Andorians and the Tellarites and the Vulcans without being a politician? But hiding behind that retort would have achieved nothing; nothing, that is, except Trip's immediate exit. And in a way it was a relief, to have this out in the open between them at last. Even if it achieved nothing except washing out the wound.

"I guess that goes to show I'm not one of the 'best' humans, then," he said at last, in a low voice.

"Don't give me that bullshit!" Trip shouted, his eyes blazing. "You think the people on this ship would've followed just anyone into the Expanse? You're one in a million, Jon. The only reason we succeeded was because of you. If I'd been in the big chair, Earth 'd be a pile of rubble by now.

"You had some terrible choices to make along the way, and let's be honest, you made some crap calls as well as a load of great ones. Goes with the territory. But Charles asked you for help and you refused, even after you knew how the Vissians treat their damned cogenitors. You didn't even talk to Drennik, try to get him onside. You just caved in. And when you found out it'd taken the only way out there was left, you blamed me." He took a breath; he was shaking, probably only partly with rage. "You didn't have to; I blamed myself, and I deserved it. But I was a fool for all the right reasons, and you were a bastard for all the wrong ones."

Jon nodded heavily. There was no point in denying it. "Was that why you decided to leave?" he asked.

The younger man laughed aloud, but there wasn't a shred of humor in it. "Maybe that was the start of it. The start of me startin' to understand you really were a starship captain before you were anything else."

"That's my job, Trip."

"No, Jon. It doesn't have to be like that, not all the time." He lifted a hand, putting a stop to any protest. "I know. I know what the Expanse did to you, or at least I know as much as I can without actually standin' in your shoes and gettin' to give the orders I have to live with afterwards. And I know nobody could go through the things we did without bein' different, bein' affected. But we … we're your crew, Jon. Once upon a time we were your friends. Now, seems like you don't even think to look around you or listen like you used to. Because I'm damn sure there was a time you'd have noticed what was goin' on under your nose. Even if we … even if we're not buddies anymore."

This accusation had started off harshly, but by the end the hurt was breaking through, unstoppable. It was typical of Trip that he blinked away tears, but made no pretense of hiding them.

Jon made no attempt to move. To try to offer comfort before he'd gotten a handle on what this was all about would be futile and, worse, insulting.

Going on under my nose? The words opened a hollow sense of dread and guilt in him. What had he missed, that he should have seen? When had he become so blind, so complacent, that he'd stopped watching what was going on around him?

Well. If he understood the situation at all, all the signs pointed to this being about some romantic crisis. Half of the problem, therefore, must be Trip. And …?

… Hoshi?

… Well, they'd always been friends. But somehow it had never seemed like more than big brother and little sister. If Jon had had to pick someone with whom his comm officer was likely to become involved, he'd have picked Travis every time.

His heart almost stopped. Malcolm. Dear god, don't let me have to do this to him, tell him what I've done this time. The two of them had clearly enjoyed each other's company, even though they often bickered like an old married couple. But if there had been more to it than that, which he'd never in a million years have suspected, how long had it been going on? He'd always thought Trip was strictly heterosexual. As for Malcolm, the guy's sexual preferences were as much a secret as his past, but it had occasionally crossed Jon's mind that the Brit might be bi, if not homosexual. And it hadn't been difficult to notice that he'd become even more of a lone wolf than usual since Trip's departure for Columbia; on Movie Nights, he didn't even bother to show up, no matter how many explosions the plot contained.

His mind skipped frantically through other alternatives, all female and most of them attractive, if not available: Em Gomez for one, whose dark sultry eyes (not to mention her other attractions) probably featured in many of the crew's daydreams. Trip had a thing for brunettes; Natalie had been brunette. So had that Princess, what was the name, Kaitaama or something…

He shut his eyes. He'd had occasional suspicions that something might be going on between his XO and his Chief Engineer, and T'Pol had alluded a while ago to some kind of sexual 'incident' between them, but he'd put it down to just another of the sorry consequences of the Expanse. The whole idea of anything serious had been just so incredible that he'd succeeded in convincing himself that the evidence was just circumstantial, and could never bear up under any serious examination. And if he was utterly honest with himself, he hadn't wanted to look at it very closely; hadn't wanted it to point to the truth.

No. No. No.

When he opened them again, Trip had slid down the door and was slumped at the foot of it. His eyes were red-rimmed. "Guess the penny finally dropped, huh?"

"Oh, Trip." It was almost a groan. Talk about reaching for the unreachable star. And it evidently wasn't just a passing flirtation; true, the engineer enjoyed the company of women and could hardly be unaware that he was considered an attractive man, but the truth was that he was a romantic at heart. He was reaching an age in his life when the next woman he fell in love with would probably be the one he'd end up marrying.

And he'd fallen in love with a Vulcan.

To quote the man himself – Ohhh, shiit.

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