San Francisco 2145
Jonathan was furious- red-faced and shouting vengeful obscenities - all of which were things Malcolm associated primarily with his late, unlamented father, and therefore with danger. He was profoundly uncomfortable.
"Well, you'll be well placed to," Malcolm replied awkwardly, after Jonathan laid out a particularly graphic revenge fantasy directed at Maxwell Forrest. "You'll be at Forrest's right-hand virtually your whole career. Your father made sure of that, before he...went. If I might suggest though, maybe wait until Enterprise is built? Once your ensconced there as captain, you can get revenge on Forrest AND still have command of your father's ship. Just like he would have wanted, right?"
This speech settled Jonathan enough to pour a pair of drinks and press one into Malcolm's hand. "You know, Reed? You're right. My father put an awful lot of effort into making sure I'd be surrounded by the right people, and that the right people would be indebted to me and this and that. But, you - well, as you know he HATED you - and yet you might be the one person who is loyal to ME."
Malcolm smiled uneasily, strategically positioning his gaze on the temple adjacent to Jonathan's dominant eye. Eye contact was challenging at the best of times and Malcolm couldn't manage it just now. "Yes...I've never done well with fathers. But, you're my friend, and you've stayed my friend even though your father dislikes me, and so yes, I would say that I'm loyal to you."
Jonathan nodded, already half a generous glass deep into his bourbon. "Exactly. And you know the best part? You aren't my type, AT ALL, and so there's no chance I'll screw things up by fucking you!"
"Isn't that lucky?" Malcolm replied carefully. He wanted badly to get out of this room, which was too hot, moving slightly, mildly infested with imaginary insects and filled with a drunk, recently bereaved, perpetually changeable tosser, on whom Malcolm's future somehow rather depended. "So, Jonathan, if you're all right, I should probably be going. I've got dawn drills to run tomorrow and..."
"Yes, yes, go..." Jonathan waved him off amicably. "I'm off to bed, after a few more of these. And I think, maybe, I'll get a puppy tomorrow."
"Not just for Christmas, right?" Malcolm replied with false levity.
"Nah. For mauling," Jonathan replied, apparently seriously, and so Malcolm left quickly.
The night air was a relief. It never got properly chilly here in San Francisco, even this late in the year. Somewhere, a dog barked, as Malcolm crossed the empty, moonlit square, past the statue of the emperor and toward the shadowed, landscaped pathway.
Quite a bit too late, he sensed something.
"Hayes, isn't it?" he said to the figure which stepped out of the shadows. He tried for an amiable tone, even though the extent to which he'd been startled must have been obvious.
Some ancient, reptilian part of Malcolm's brain shifted his weight onto his back foot, but there was no escape there. He saw more figures behind him out of the corner of his eye.
"Six," Hayes said flatly, reading his mind. "There are six of us. Had a pleasant evening, have you? Did you manage to cheer Archer up?"
"Not really," Malcolm replied, too flustered for anything beyond the truth. His mind couldn't quite catch up to this.
Hayes smirked. "Well, never mind, darling. You'll do better next time."
Malcolm took a step backwards. "You've got the wrong idea."
"Well now, I don't think so. According to that Vulcan piece of ass, you never took a run at her, all those years you owned her. She had to crawl into some hillbilly's bed to get some satisfaction. Meanwhile, you end up followings Archer around. Apparently, old Johnny-boy never got the memo about not sticking his dick in CRAZY. And, now you tell me that you can't satisfy HIM either. Sad. But don't worry. Admiral Forrest sent us to help you out. Give you some practice."
It was time to do something. Anything. But there was nothing to do. Only useless images flashed through his mind. Hollyhocks. Pigeons flocking in Trafalgar Square.
"There are six of us, Reed," Hayes repeated softly, taking just one step forward. "The only thing left for you to do, is to decide how badly hurt you want to be at the end of it."
Malcolm fought then. More effectively than he expected and harder than he'd known he could. Harder than was probably wise; because in the end it didn't matter.
