"Lieutenant."

He almost doesn't answer. After all, that was the rank of that bloke he'd gone away to look for, and wherever the cowardly little shite had hidden himself, he'd done a good job of it.

Habit is strong, however. The measured voice expects an answer, so after a moment he responds.

"Sir."

The soup had helped. At first he hadn't wanted any of it, but that wasn't in the bargain. It had been downright embarrassing having an ensign (especially an extremely attractive ensign) helping him hold the spoon, but after a couple of tries he'd got the hang of it again. And though he hadn't eaten much of it, it had tasted wonderful. 'Lovely', in fact. Fortunately this time his vocabulary had supplied him with 'Delicious', which was less open to misinterpretation, although there were circumstances ...

His mind pulls him up sternly. He's back on Enterprise now, where that kind of thought is entirely out of order. And besides, the captain is here on the most formal business in his capacity as a ship's commanding officer – to institute proceedings against the criminal who was formerly a member of his crew. Jag's inclined to grin, if only because that's what he does in the face of ruin, but some respect is owing to the man who gave him a chance for salvation, and so he remains quiet and attentive.

Captain Archer sits down in the chair. Hoshi has gone back up to duty on the Bridge. Phlox has gone out, presumably to catch some lunch on his own account. Sickbay is quiet. Even the menagerie seems to be sleeping.

"I read the report on your mission," the captain says quietly, after a moment. "How are you feeling now?"

"Fine, sir." Not bad at all, sir, for a would-be assassin who was shot through the chest. She's bloody good, you know. We hated each other's guts, but she can bloody shoot. Now you're short of a tactical officer you could do a heck of a lot worse, but I'm not sure how good she'd be with reports.

"Traan has enormous deposits of dilithium. If war breaks out, it might be crucial for Starfleet to have access to that kind of supplies. I understand that's what you were sent to ensure."

"Pretty well, sir." He wonders what sort of detail the report had gone into. Standard Starfleet personnel were unlikely to have been given the unredacted version, but in view of the captain's position in relation to events, he might well have been told more than most. After all, he'd had to go to the planet in question and verify the identity of the man who'd only just been prevented from carrying out an assassination of a public figure carrying out a perfectly legal activity.

Bloody hell. By the time all these reports are in, he'll have one of the most radioactive service records in Starfleet history. They'll have to enclose it in lead casing and concrete before it's filed under Closed: Dishonourable Discharge. There will be a court-martial, of course, and he'll plead guilty; what point would there be in doing otherwise? He'd accepted that as inevitable if he survived, for the evidence is there in black and white, with hundreds of witnesses to testify to it. His own team will speak against him if required; they were, after all, sent to track down and eliminate the would-be assassin. At least, that's the story, and that's what their testimony will say when the Section provides it. How pleased Harris will be by these developments is hard to say, and quite frankly he doesn't give a damn. At least it will put an end to Jag's career once and for all. Even the Section would be hard pressed to justify employing a condemned criminal, especially one convicted in the show trial his will probably be. And he'll be locked up anyway, to serve out his debt to Starfleet and the Traan government, for however long the tribunal decides such treachery merits.

Imprisonment... The word makes him shudder, even though that too is inevitable, and there's nothing left that he cares about anyway. He wants to believe he's strong enough to bear it, but isn't as confident as he'd like to be. Can one die of despair? Keri won't be allowed to correspond with him after this, and that's for sure. Her parents won't want her even to remember his existence, and young as she is she'll forget quickly enough. He hopes she will, anyway; hopes she'll never discover that the man she thinks of as her friend is a convicted criminal... Maybe it would have been better for him if Paw hadn't been as good a shot, but Leo had given her the orders. She'd hit him exactly where she was supposed to hit him, giving him the chance of surviving. With skills like hers she'd be a real catch for Enterprise – after all, they won't be getting their tactical officer back.

It wouldn't half piss Harris off, having Enterprise nick another weapons expert off him – the thought would be a cheerful one if he didn't know how good she was for the team. Though maybe she was happy enough with them anyway, and wouldn't want to leave. And pity knew how she'd get on arguing with Trip over more power for the Armoury all the time. She probably wouldn't be able to understand his accent, for one thing.

"So. Would you feel up to debriefing on it?" The question breaks into his wandering thoughts, recalling him to the present.

For the first time, he feels something close to anxiety. Leo is his senior officer. Unless Leo is dead or compromised, he shouldn't discuss Section affairs with anyone else, especially not someone who doesn't belong. But at least there's one thing he can safely say.

"I – I couldn't find him, sir. I'm sorry." There, that's safe enough. And he is sorry – for so many things. Sorry for being a disgrace at home and a failure at his career; and sorry for letting Captain Archer down, because he's a decent bloke, and whoever this Reed chap had been, Archer obviously cares about him. Pity knows why, given all that's gone on between them lately; you'd have thought it would have been good riddance to bad rubbish.

The captain looks at him strangely, for what seems like a long time.

"The report said you were ordered to use explosives. I guess that would have taken out a lot of innocent people."

He swallows. There's a silence, which he terminates by nodding, though he doesn't say anything.

"Something you'd done before – when you were ordered to?" the American suggests casually.

He nods again, jerkily. Murderer.

After a moment the other man sits back. Above the crossed arms his face is reflective.

"So how many of those other times did you suggest having yourself shot as a viable alternative?"

This is far too searching a question. He hasn't been expecting it. A betraying quiver of consternation crosses his face.

"It – it just seemed like a good idea, sir."

"Why? Seems to me it was more like a gamble. The sort of gamble a Section operative wouldn't even think about, if all he cared about was getting the job done."

"It got the job done, sir." His voice is too desperate. "The other way, he'd just have been a martyr. One martyr makes a thousand converts."

"But that's not Section thinking, Lieutenant. That's Tactical Officer thinking. Intelligent thinking. Even compassionate thinking, for all those innocent people who'd have died too. You're a disgrace to the Section, Operative."

Somebody bites down on a low moan of absolute horror, and it might be him. Although this was the outcome he'd contemplated and accepted in the hour when he'd decided that the gamble had to be taken, still, to hear it named in all its brutal simplicity appals him. He's a failure again. He couldn't kill and they wouldn't let him die. Murderer. Renegade. Outcast. Will there ever again be somewhere he belongs?

Sickbay blurs in a hot, stinging rush of desolation and despair. He thrusts out a hand, blindly, and a strong one catches it.

"Malcolm. We can get you through this. If you'll trust me. Work with me."

He blinks the tears away and stares, dumbfounded, at the man who used to believe in him.

Get him through this? Through a court-martial, and the scandal that would envelop Starfleet if the truth came out? His silence will protect the team. He won't talk, not for any price. Better prison for the rest of his life than that.

And besides, what's this from Archer? The man already knew he was a proven traitor, and has now found out he's an assassin to boot. Is this the sort of officer he wants manning his ship's tactical station, in the unbelievable event that the course of justice can be perverted?

"Come back to Enterprise, Lieutenant. She needs you. We need you. You're one of the family."

He laughs aloud at that. He can't help it. If he's one of the family he's the black sheep of it, and he's more than half way to the slaughterhouse already.

"Sorry, sir," he replies a little unsteadily. "I'm flattered, I'm ... hell, I can't believe you'd still say that. But there's the small matter of my upcoming trial to take into account."

The captain's eyes move to the marks the garrotte left. They've faded, but if you know where to look you can still see them. "You were part of an undercover unit sent to investigate who was influencing opinion against Starfleet on Traan," he says almost conversationally. It sounds like he's reciting something that has been carefully put together in co-operation with someone else who's far better than he ever was at concocting plausible fairy-tales. "Unfortunately, I believe you were attacked. Captured. Tortured. Drugged."

"I'm a Section 31 operative, sir. I'm trained to resist that sort of thing." He speaks slowly and carefully, as though this was a minor detail that his erstwhile commanding officer might somehow have forgotten.

"As far as Starfleet is concerned, Mister Reed, you've had no more training than the average security personnel. You couldn't be expected to combat what was used against you. Mind-altering drugs, that made you open to suggestion."

A frown, as he thinks through the avenue the captain is opening up. "If a Starfleet officer was convicted of the killing, the assassination would play into the Nausicaans' hands. They'd lose Bheval – but they'd make a martyr of him. Just as I predicted."

"So it was just as well that the rest of your team tracked you down, realized what was going on, and took the only option available to them in the time." For the first time, the hint of a smile touches the captain's eyes. "Their methods were a mite crude, but they got the job done."

There's a pause. "Mind-altering drugs – that the Sashwe's doctors didn't detect."

"There were several substances in your blood that they didn't recognize. Your anti-allergens, for one."

"And Phlox would be willing to stand up in front of a tribunal and lie?" he asks incredulously.

"If we play this right, it won't get as far as a tribunal." The smile-creases deepen, but there's ruefulness in the twist of the captain's mouth. "I'm getting too good at this business. I'm learning how to write reports to get the results I want rather than to tell the brass what actually happened. And your team have already agreed to support whatever report I submit."

The admission startles a huff of laughter out of him, but it's brief, and he falls back into total sobriety as he stares at his commanding officer. "Sir – why are you willing to do this for me?"

It's a question to which he has to have an answer before he makes a decision. Time had been when Jonathan Archer would never have contemplated falsifying official records. Admittedly the Expanse changed him, and in many ways not for the better, but not that much.

There's a much longer pause, during which he can read all too clearly that he's not going to like the answer. Finally, the other man speaks, slowly, as though choosing his words. "I agreed to send you back to your old team as much for Enterprise's benefit as for yours. After everything that I saw on Farlaxi, I..."

"You thought I'd fail. You expected me to fail. You wanted me to fail!" The three successive realisations are uttered on a rising volume of shock and pain. Perceiving the truth too clearly, he wouldn't believe a denial if the captain attempted one; but Archer doesn't even try.

"Malcolm," he says quietly instead, after a long moment. "Do you remember when we first set out, how often you got mad at me for not taking enough care of the ship?"

"I can't imagine a number with that many fucking zeros in it, sir," he snaps. It's hardly appropriate language, but then nothing much is likely to make his prospects significantly worse, so he might as well take the chance of getting this old grievance off his chest.

Instead of reacting with anger, his commanding officer simply nods. "You were right. I had to learn that lesson, Malcolm, and in hindsight I'm only amazed we got away so lightly. But I did learn it. And now I can't – I won't – let my personal feelings get in the way of my responsibility for the safety of the people in my care. I thought I could cope with what you had to do on Farlaxi, but it ... it raised too many doubts. And with those doubts, I didn't dare take the chance. I had to find out the hard way, by putting you to the test. And yes, if you want the truth, I did expect you to fail. I thought you'd revert to what you were back then, what you were on Farlaxi. It just seemed like..." he drew a deep breath, "like so much a part of you."

"You let me believe you were doing it for my benefit, when it was for yours all the time." The words are low and bitter. The betrayal is unbearable; all else he can endure if he must, but this is the blow that will kill him.

"No." Archer's voice in rebuttal is almost as low, and vehement. "It wasn't for yours and it wasn't for mine. It was for the ship. And I'll be damned if I'll let you accuse me of wanting to lose the best tactical officer in the Fleet! Can't you get it through your thick skull that it was the only way I could think of to keep you?

"After all we've been through, after all you've done for the ship, you honestly think I wanted to get rid of you? Hell, Malcolm, you should know me better than that! But maybe you did too good a job of teaching me where my responsibilities lie, maybe I've learned too much of what you tried to tell me all those years ago. The ship's welfare comes before everything. Before whatever I feel or whatever you feel. I can't rely on my gut feelings any more. When it comes to the safety of my ship and my crew, I need proof!"

Yet another pause, this one long and aching, while two pairs of eyes search one another savagely.

"If I'd carried out the Section's orders, you'd have let me hang."

"I wouldn't have lifted a finger to save you. You had to prove to me who you were. When you did what you did, I had my answer. And for that officer – my officer, not the Section's – I'll do whatever it takes to keep him on the ship."

The decision is both simple and unbearable. How can he fault the captain for learning, at last, to be ruthless? How can he explain how it hurts to understand that Archer has learned to play the Section at its own game, to lie and connive for his own ends? What end will it serve to accept the punishment he didn't earn, to plead guilty to a crime he never intended to commit, to spend the rest of his useful life behind bars for deliberately missing a target? For war is coming. They both know it, they can smell it like rain on the wind, and if Enterprise is to stand a chance of weathering the gathering storm she'll need the best weapons officer in Starfleet. By comparison with that, the loss of some outworn concept of 'honour' is a small sacrifice, if indeed there still is any remnant of honour in him that wasn't fouled and compromised long ago.

Perhaps there is no way now to redeem himself, to pick a way back to whatever he once dreamed of being. Perhaps in a way Archer's right, and the Section has too hard a hold on what he is. Perhaps the captain to whom he gave his allegiance when he came on board died long ago in the Expanse, as surely as he himself died in the Section, and there's no resurrecting either of them. He could weep himself blind at that realisation, but tears solve nothing, restore nothing. All that he has left that's capable of deserving his undivided loyalty is Enterprise herself.

Jaguar's death-scream is long and soundless. His knuckles are white; somehow he's found a hand to hold, a lifeline to hang on to. The captain endures the pain, saying nothing, his grip in return as hard as his gaze. He too knows now that choices are dirty and life is grim, and that compromise is sometimes the only way to get through and get the job done.

Enterprise needs him. Soon she'll need him as she's never needed him before.

After a long moment, the world comes back into focus.

He's holding his captain's hand, which is probably counter to at least half a dozen regulations, and bloody embarrassing as well. Him being a Brit, and the English don't go in for all this hand-holding stuff.

He draws a deep breath. It's shakier than he'd have preferred, but he's got hold of himself by the end.

"Sir. Request permission to come back on board."

Archer releases him. "Permission granted, Lieutenant. As soon as Phlox passes you fit, we'll be glad to have you back on duty."

Malcolm sits back. He's trembling with relief, and something close to exhilaration. They're not out of the woods yet, but Starfleet know too well that the war is coming. Given a chance to dismiss charges against the tactical officer of the fleet's flagship, they're unlikely to ask too many searching questions. And Traan's newly discovered distrust of the Nausicaans will be a fertile breeding ground for yet more suspicions, carefully planted and watered. Kidnapping – torture – brainwashing! What other horrors might these previous 'allies' of theirs be capable of? It's a working certainty that they'll spread the word to other governments with whom they have friendly relationships (and there are many). The Nausicaans may find themselves with a cool welcome around this part of the quadrant from now on.

And in the meantime, he's home.

He's home again.

At last.

The End.

Author's Note: Thanks to Serit, who helped me with some of the ideas for this chapter!

All reviews received with gratitude!