Another Friend In Need story, set after the episode "Home" (Season 4)

Grateful thanks to RoaringMice for her beta reading.

As the rays of the setting sun filtered through the curtained window of the San Francisco one-room flat, Trip sank on the sofa-bed and passed a hand over his face. It'd be nice if they could illuminate him as they did that square on the floor, because damn if he could make head or tail of anything, included how he felt – though lousy summarised it well.

Lousy, in the specific, meant restless, for one. He, the laid-back Southern boy, was restless. Restless, exhausted... Had anyone ever heard of that? Exhausted and restless! Crazy.

Sleep, despite the time lag after returning from Vulcan, had proved impossible. Mostly, it was because of that something that had taken residence in the middle of his chest and seemed to expand every now and then, choking him. Undoubtedly it was what people called a broken heart; but Trip didn't like that mental image – he'd always been able to fix anything broken, and it bothered him that with a broken heart he didn't even know where to start – so he preferred to refer to it as 'the beast'. It seemed appropriate, given that it often bared some pretty sharp and painful claws.

At times the beast was bad enough that, if only he hadn't been so exhausted, he'd have dragged himself to a doctor and begged for something to put him under for a while. Trip sighed. Ah, who was he kidding? Exhaustion had nothing to do with it; the truth was a doctor would ask questions, and the hell if he was in the right frame of mind to answer them.

And then there was the anxiety; but that was something he was already used to, a torment that had plagued him for months now. Of course it was no wonder he'd been anxious in the Expanse. He hadn't expected, though, not to be able to get rid of the feeling once the mission was over. He no longer had to worry whether he'd still be alive the next day, whether the planet Earth would still be around; yet his system refused to believe it.

Damn. His life had been so happy and carefree… But that had been before the horror; before a swathe had come to divide his untroubled before from his difficult now.

Trip jumped to his feet and started pacing. The thought of the scar left by the Xindi probe always had that effect on him, urging him to move as if he could walk away from the destruction he had seen with his own two eyes, from the edge of the abyss on which he had stood, looking down on what had been his hometown. Damn, the acrid smell alone – the sickening remainder of things and people gone – would haunt him till he died. And even if, as now, he scrunched his eyes closed in the instinctive and futile attempt to cancel the harrowing images, all that he ever accomplished was to unleash an even worse demon, a nightmarish fantasy in which he actually 'saw' the destruction being wreaked, and Elizabeth...

Hell, hell, hell… Fire and flames. Everything engulfed in a ball of fire, burned down to ashes.

Trip reopened his eyes just in time to stop himself from smashing into a wall.

Burnout. He, on the other hand, was definitely burned out. He'd be surprised if they weren't all, the survivors of the Expanse, to some degree.

Turning, he scanned his room, his nondescript Starfleet accommodations in this San Francisco where one couldn't help but breathe an air of joyful relief: off-white walls, practical furniture, few pictures hanging in strategic spots. T'Pol's house had been just as... aseptic, if you wanted, but unlike this room had not lacked warmth or style. There had been a feeling of family, there; of hearth. He had taken in every detail, wanting to be part of it.

Not even one full day had passed since he had returned from Vulcan, and every damn minute had seemed an eternity.

Trip fought the beast in his chest, which was growing larger again, stealing ever more room from his lungs. But it was too strong for him; with a sudden decision he strode to get his jacket from the hanger on the wall, and let himself out, slamming the door behind him.

Exiting the Starfleet grounds, he kept along the water, hands tucked in the pockets of his jacket. It was the beginning of fall, and though the weather was still pleasant, temperatures, especially towards the evening, already reminded him that the summer was behind.

Trip walked unaware of his surroundings, unaware of time, focused inward despite the need to escape his own self. But then he came to a park, and to a bench that looked as forlorn as he felt, and dropped to sit on it, wearily. Street lamps had been lit, he realised, even though the sky wasn't completely dark yet. They cast their yellowish light all around, on the joggers and the dog-sitters; on the mothers hurrying back home with their kids; on the couples strolling hand-in-hand and the businessmen talking on their phones; all of them oblivious to the burned-out man they were passing, the man who had gone to hell and back to ensure they would still be here today, doing whatever they were doing with their lives.

"May I sit here?"

Silently cursing at the possibility that someone might have recognised him, Trip turned ready to give whoever it was a cold 'find yourself another bench'. But after a moment of stunned silence, what came out was an equally unwelcoming, "what are you doin' here?" The person shifted his gaze away, focusing it for a moment on the ground. His mouth tightened.

"Well, I…" Malcolm faltered, darting a glance back.

That and the undercurrent of guilt in his voice could only mean one thing. Irritation surged through Trip like a wave: eyes – no matter how friendly – had been on on him without him knowing. When his guard had been low, they had taken in his fragility, seen what he was sure had been all over his face. Not that he was ashamed of his feelings; it was the stealth that infuriated him. He felt betrayed.

"Have you been followin' me?" he snapped, cuttingly. "For heaven's sake, Malcolm, that's unacceptable. Everyone is entitled to some peace and quiet; to some damn privacy."

Malcolm, who had ridden the verbal pelting without a sound, remained silent, eyes averted. It made Trip pause and take a good look at him. Burnout. Here was another burned-out man. They might have smiled, the proud crew of the Enteprise, when they were hailed as heroes just days before, but out of the spotlight they were ghosts of themselves.

With a deep sigh, Trip leaned back and pinched his nose. "Go on, sit down," he muttered. He wasn't very happy about it, but he wasn't going to send the man away. He half expected Malcolm would decide to go on his own, but it didn't happen, and without a word he sat down at the other end of the bench from him.

An invisible barrier stood between them, which neither of them seemed to want to pierce. Of course, Malcolm never had a problem with silence, though at the moment it was probably guilt that kept him quiet.

"How did you know where to find me?" Trip eventually asked, shifting so he could look at the man. "Have you been following me?"

Malcolm's eyes, from what Trip could see in the brief moment that met his, were rueful.

"The Captain told me you were back from Vulcan," he said, uncomfortably. "I was coming to look for you when I saw you exit the Starfleet grounds; you looked absorbed in thought and… Well, yes, I followed you."

"The Captain!" Trip shook his head in exasperation. "He sent you to look after me?"

"He didn't quite put it that way," Malcolm said in a careful voice. "But then again, he didn't need to."

How true. Trip could just imagine the scene: Jon telling Malcolm, 'Trip's in town; back early from Vulcan', while his green eyes sent the rest of the message; Malcolm nodding silently, in acknowledgement of his unspoken orders. Well, the Expanse had made of them a tight group, fine-tuned their skills at reading each others. That was when it hadn't undermined friendships. Trip felt his face harden at the thought of how distant Jon had become in the last year.

"And why didn't he come himself, if he was so concerned."

It wasn't a question, but it got an answer all the same.

"Because someone who is lost in a desert can hardly give another man directions, or even a drink of water," Malcolm said wearily. He leaned forward with his forearms on his thighs, hands dangling and fingers loosely steepled. After a beat, he revealed, "The Captain went hiking."

"Glad someone's havin' a good time," Trip scoffed. And if he'd been trying to get a rise from the other man, that finally did it. Malcolm jerked his head to shoot him a hooded glance.

"You're being unfair, Trip. After all he's gone through, I very much doubt the Captain could have a good time were he in the Garden of Eden itself." In a sarcastic voice, he added, "Besides, it sounds like you ought to be able to sympathise with someone wanting some peace and quiet."

Malcolm's remark stung, as it was undoubtedly meant to, making Trip regret his harsh stance, a child more of his own troubles than anything else. He might resent Jon for the turn their friendship had taken lately, but the fact remained that the man had done a helluva fine job of saving their planet. Without his leadership – without the damning leadership he had adopted in the Expanse – Earth would be space dust by now; and the cost for the Captain had been high.

But why the hell had he cut him – Trip – off from his life, instead of confiding in him?

Another wave of restlessness assaulted Trip; the beast expanded in his chest, like suffocating foam. He shifted on the bench, sourness rising through him. "I take it you're not lost in any desert," he snorted. "Or you wouldn't be here offering that glass of water."

With a frowning glance, Malcolm slowly rose back to sitting and, to his credit, likely counted to five before reacting to the unwarranted cynicism; but in the end his answer was totally infuriating.

"I'm fine."

"Oh, right," Trip snapped. "Our fearless Armoury Officer. I suppose that's why you didn't even visit home: to spare your parents the shock of seeing how fine you are."

This time he had definitely gone too far. Malcolm stood up and turned to face the bench, seeking eye contact. Malcolm's eyes told you a lot, if you knew how to read them, and when he actually wanted you to meet them it was never a good sign.

"What I'm doing or not doing with my time off is none of your bloody business," he said, the ice in his voice at odds with the fire in his gaze.

Weren't they a delightful pair? Having so much fun on their well-deserved shore leave. Both on edge, patience worn thin by months of impossible tension.

"I think I'd better go," Malcolm muttered, and turned to leave.

"Wait…"

Suddenly Trip's murky mind had realised that if Malcolm walked away he'd be left alone in the badly lit darkness of this park and of his confusion. He didn't want that.

Malcolm turned and shot him a wary look. He hesitated for a moment; then retraced a few steps and they silently studied each other. Trip stood up, jerked his head to gesture 'let's walk', and they started together along the main path.

At least he didn't have to spell out 'I'm sorry' – Trip mused. Silent communication was one of the good things about his friendship with this man. Another one was that Malcolm probably understood him better than he understood himself at the moment. Maybe it would be good to have his company tonight.

They walked at a brisk pace again – men with a goal, or running late, one would think; except that it was neither, and there was no outrunning what was chasing them.

The path wound gracefully, skirting the water and then turning away from it. There weren't many people around, now. In fact, there was nobody, except for that couple kissing hungrily under that tree near... The beast clawed at him wildly, and Trip veered abruptly onto a smaller path. Malcolm was left a couple of steps back, but caught up with him swiftly.

"Why did you even go to Vulcan?" the man demanded in what was almost an angry voice, his breathing a bit short from their marathon.

"Trip."

Trip felt a restraining hand on his arm but shook it off and didn't stop. "It was a mistake," he said through a clenched jaw.

Suddenly it struck him that Malcolm knew: not only his thoughts just now, but all the rest. They had never openly discussed his relationship with T'Pol – if that is what one could call the stilted thing he'd had with their Second in Command. An entirely irrational laughter bubbled up, but on its tail were burning tears, which he tried to keep at bay by squeezing his eyes shut. Stupid. He quickly turned his face away.

"Why did you go?" Malcolm repeated, forcefully stopping him this time. He appeared before him.

"I wanted to see where she comes from," Trip croaked out, when he got past the knot in his throat. "The house she had grown up in, the garden where she had played with that… that pet of hers, the things she had touched, the sights she had seen. Maybe, just maybe, if I could be more part of her world..."

"For heaven's sake, Trip, she was going to get married," Malcolm said in disbelief. "It's like... having a mek'leth thrust in you in order to learn about Klingon weapons! You can't complain, then, if you're hurting."

"She didn't want to marry that architect," Trip burst out.

"The name," Malcolm said firmly. "Say it."

"What?"

"That architect has a name, and you know it. Say it aloud. You've got to face what happened."

Trip felt the beast dig its claws even deeper. "You think I haven't faced it?" he snapped. Dammit, I was present when they…"

Malcolm didn't respond to the anger, letting the silence take the edge off it.

"Koss," Trip murmured after a beat. "She didn't want to marry Koss. I thought maybe at the last moment, if I was there..."

The dark head shook slowly. Trip had to agree. Seen now, after what had happened, his idea seemed totally harebrained.

"Come on," Malcolm said softly, "let's find a bar and a couple of drinks."

He resumed walking, but Trip didn't budge, unsure he wanted that. Bars were too noisy; bars were too cheerful, full of people having a good time, especially now that the Big Fear was gone. But Malcolm turned, and though half of his face was in shadow the expression on it was clearly determined, and Trip's legs obeyed the unspoken order.

So be it. He needed someone to be in charge, anyway. A bit like when, as a child, his mother had thundered 'Charles Tucker the third, now you are going to stop whatever you're doing and go wash your hands'. He might have resented it, there and then, but ultimately he felt secure under her strong guidance. Right now he needed someone like that, someone strong that he could trust. Malcolm was it. Malcolm's strength had been a firm point in the middle of chaos, in the Expanse; a pillar on which to lean. Maybe he could lean on him again; and not repeat the Captain's mistake.

Malcolm navigated him out of the park and through several streets; they walked a good fifteen minutes, saying nothing. Finally, they got to a plain four-storey building in a nondescript part of town. A door, with a small neon light that said J&G, opened onto a narrow and rundown staircase. Trip looked at Malcolm questioningly but the man just started up, and he had no choice other than following him.

The locale that beckoned on the second floor was nothing like Trip had expected: warm low lights made for a cosy and private atmosphere; tables were set in separate alcoves, and jazz music played, just high – or low – enough to provide a pleasant background. A soft clicking sound drew Trip's eyes to a door, through which he glimpsed another room with billiard tables.

"Lieutenant," a grey-haired, pot-bellied man greeted, with a welcoming smile. "Jenny and I were hoping you'd show up. We wanted to shake your hand. If we're still around, it's only thanks to you guys."

"Only our duty, George," Malcolm said, his voice dull – devoid of the enthusiasm his interlocutor had probably expected.

Our duty! Trip wanted to scream. He hadn't become a Spaceship Engineer to be thrown in a war where no rules applied. He turned away from the barman, afraid his thoughts would show, and cast a look around. Fortunately, there were few people, all minding their own businesses.

"Your faces show up on TV more times a day than the new Coke ad," George said with a chuckle. "It's an honour to meet you, Commander Tucker."

Trip turned only for a brief nod and a muttered 'thanks'.

"Not that the crew of the Enterprise doesn't deserve all the attention and praise," George went on, oblivious of their uncommunicativeness. "Jennifer will be mad as hell when she knows that she missed you two. She's home with a bad cold."

"George..." Malcolm leaned towards him. "We've come for a bit of quiet, and would like to go unnoticed."

"This is the place," the man said with a wink. "The table in the right hand corner is free. What shall I bring you?"

Malcolm turned to Trip, eyes assessing. "Scotch," he ordered. "Come," he said, nudging Trip's elbow.

A moment later they were sitting at a round table in an alcove, protected from curious gazes.

"Scotch?" Trip wondered, throwing his jacket on the bench, beside him.

A fleeting frown crossed Malcolm's brow. "I apologise," he said, suddenly uncertain. "It wasn't my intention to---"

"Nah, it's okay. Probably for the best." Deflating, Trip passed a hand through his hair. "How do you know this place? It's not exactly easy to find, or well advertised."

George appeared with a bottle and two glasses. "The best I have, and it's on the house," he said, putting them down on the table.

"Thank you," Malcolm said. "It's appreciated."

The man smiled and went on his way.

"I used to come here before I got the job on Enterprise," Malcolm said, as he followed George with his gaze. He turned to Trip. "Here I could disappear for a few hours, when I needed to be alone with myself."

"And nobody ever found out about this little haven of yours?"

"I'm good at shaking people off."

"Yeah, just as you're good at trackin' people," Trip said deadpan.

Malcolm winced. "Trip, look…" His eyes dropped on his hands, which were cradling a still empty glass. "I'm sorry if it looked like I was spying on you. I only wanted to..." The grey gaze lifted. "Are you going to be all right?"

Trip let out a huff. Grabbing the bottle, he poured the golden liquor in both their glasses. Good question – he mused. There seemed to be no end to the misery. First his sister; then the Expanse with all they'd had to face, last but not least having a clone created to save his life; then the Captain blowing up with the weapon; then getting back to the wrong Earth. And he had survived all that only to feel this damned… to be shattered by...

Grabbing his glass, Trip took a generous swig. Let the beast that raged inside him drown in the burning liquid. As the liquor travelled down his oesophagus, he felt Malcolm's eyes on him, just as burning. The man was still waiting for an answer, but he had none to give him.

"You've had it tougher than most of us in the past year," Malcolm said tentatively.

Trip didn't want to meet his gaze. This was treacherous ground; already once when this friend had tried to offer him comfort he'd barked at him to mind his own business. He wouldn't do a repeat of...

"And now T'Pol's---"

"Look, change the subject, will you?" he cut off.

Dammit.

Wincing, he tried to make up for the outburst by adding more quietly, "It wouldn't have worked anyway."

It was a lie. He would've done anything to make it work, had he been given the chance; and he knew he could've succeeded. But it was over.

There was noticeable awkwardness between them in the silence that followed. Being the brave man he was, though, Malcolm pushed on, his voice both careful and steady.

"I never realised you had it this bad. I thought you were teasing her, pursuing a bit of romance to keep your mind off..." He caught himself; then concluded, "Other things."

In the middle of his misery, Trip managed to feel bad for the man. No matter how close they had got in these four years, Malcolm remained a reserved person, especially when it came to personal matters, which made this conversation quite difficult for him. The fact that he was here, trying to help him talk, only meant he was a loyal officer and friend. So talk he would.

"It just happened," he croaked out.

How the hell had it happened? He had asked himself that several times. When they had started out on their mission, four years earlier, he'd even resented having a Vulcan on board; as Second in Command, no less!

He poured himself another glass. Malcolm still hadn't touched his. "That time, in the Shuttlepod, when we almost froze to death… You were the one who asked me what I thought of her as a woman."

Malcolm gave him a deadpan look. "Come on, Trip, I'm sure you'd noticed T'Pol's… attributes even before my drunken ramblings. And that, in any case, wasn't love; it was only... well, you know," he concluded, wincing.

Yes, Trip knew. Every male on board had been aware of their SIC's outstanding qualities – of the kind that had nothing to do with her professional training.

"Maybe it did start out almost as a joke, as a distraction," Trip murmured, to himself. "But then, when she seemed to..." He closed his eyes. "Hell, Malcolm, how am I supposed to…"

How was he supposed to return to the ship, once their mission resumed, and work side by side with the woman he still loved but could never hope to make his own? How was he going to look at T'Pol, day in and day out, with only the eyes of the colleague? How could he ignore her deep gaze, endearing mouth, and lovely curves; and, more than that, the uniqueness of her character, which attracted him like a magnet?

Trip refocused on empathic grey eyes.

"You need to ask yourself what your priority in life is, at this point," Malcolm said carefully. "If you care enough about your position as Chief Engineer on Enterprise to accept having to serve on the same ship as her, knowing it might hurt you."

The words had obviously weighed much, because they had dragged his voice into the cellar.

Trip narrowed his eyes. He hadn't expected Malcolm to suggest he might want to find another job. As his closest friend on board he knew the man would miss him greatly if he decided to ask for another assignment. It had to have cost him. He watched him finally bring the glass to his lips to take his first sip, which spoke loads.

"Heck," Trip breathed out pensively, "I wish I knew what my priority is. I only wish things returned to what they were before the Expanse."

"Wouldn't that be nice."

Voices rose abruptly in the billiard room and Malcolm tensed visibly. He jerked his head to cast a look in the direction of the noise, eyes narrowed, muscles readying for action. But it was only a group of boisterous friends, having a good time.

Trip frowned. "I've heard about Phlox," he said, watching his friend slowly relax again.

Leaning with his forearms on the table, Malcolm turned the glass in his hands. "The Doctor was quite shocked; he has returned to Enterprise. If Travis and I hadn't been there it might have ended badly."

"I don't condone xenophobia, but you can't really expect the Xindi attack to have no ugly aftermath," Trip said, more harshly than he had intended. The large swathe cutting across continents, with its millions of ghosts, was happily preying on his mind again.

Malcolm looked at him warily. "I suppose not," he agreed softly. "But I'd rather not witness any of it."

As they lapsed into silence, Trip leaned back. The whisky was beginning to have its numbing effect, to loosen muscles that had been in a hard knot for days; it wasn't doing anything, though, towards clearing his mind.

"You can't spend your shore leave alone in San Francisco, torturing yourself, Trip," Malcolm said, leaning back too. "We have precious little time to recoup some physical and mental form before Starfleet reassesses us, and you can't spend it like this."

He was again firm as a rock; the pillar.

"Visit your family," he went on. "Or take a vacation somewhere, far from Starfleet and the memories it reawakens."

"Look who's talking." Trip let out a mirthless huff. "Sorry to bring it up again, but why haven't you gone home to your family?"

Malcolm stiffened. He had talked himself into a corner, and the tactician in him was undoubtedly silently cursing. But Trip wasn't going to let him off the hook. Eyes unwavering on his victim, he waited patiently for a reply.

"I can't," Malcolm forced out.

"I'm sorry?" Trip lifted innocent eyebrows. "Have you looked at yourself in the mirror, recently? I'm not the only one who's in dire need of some R&R."

"Exactly," Malcolm muttered under his breath.

What a revealing little word.

"I'm also not the only one who needs to talk," Trip said meaningfully. Time to return the favour. He bore into the reticent man, but Malcolm's lips tightened. "So you won't take your own medicine?" Trip complained. A pained expression flittered across his friend's face.

"My father raised me by a strict code of honour," he finally said, his accent thick, "and I didn't exactly abide by it in the last year." His eyes closed for an instant. "I can't face him right now; he'd know at a glance. I wouldn't be able to hide things from him; it's too soon, I'm too…" With difficulty he admitted, "Vulnerable."

Vulnerable. What a mess they were. Trip felt as if a void had opened up beneath him, and bit his lip against the dizziness of free-falling into it. A pang of conscience stabbed him: he shouldn't have pressed the reserved Lieutenant into sharing his demons with him. Especially because...

"What I said before, about wantin' to save your parents the shock of seeing how fine you are…" Trip said ruefully, "I was actually thinkin' of myself. My parents have already lost a daughter, they oughtta at least be allowed to believe their son is the acclaimed man they see on the news, not this scrambled wretch."

Malcolm took another thoughtful sip. He was going easy on the drinking. Maybe he feared he might end up having to carry home a tipsy engineer.

"From what I've gathered, your family is not like mine, Trip," he eventually said. "You ought to let them help you. It would help them too."

Trip blinked, as if jolted awake from a nightmare. Where had he got to? He had always relied on his family, shared joys and sorrows with them. Malcolm was right, he must do that again, for their sake as much as his.

"What about you," he wondered. "Who will help you?"

"You know me; I'll be okay."

Trip frowned. "I can't leave knowin' that you'll stay here to face your demons all alone."

"I'll go back to the ship," Malcolm put in quickly, awkwardly. "I have plenty of things to do in the Armoury, repairs to supervise… Besides, work is a good excuse for not visiting home."

"You're welcome to come with me," Trip offered. "There's always room for a friend in the Tuckers' household."

Malcolm's Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he hesitated briefly. "Thanks, but it wouldn't be right," he said. "I would stand in the way between you and your family, and you don't need that; not this time."

Trip knew he was right, but he didn't like it. He reached for the whisky again. It didn't feel right to leave Malcolm behind, yet he was too exhausted to do anything about it. And Malcolm was strong, wasn't he? He'd be okay, wouldn't he?

"Don't worry about me," the man said firmly, reading his thoughts. "Get some rest; I wouldn't want you to fail Starfleet's tests." Raising witty eyebrows he added in a low drone, "Imagine having to face a new Chief Engineer, just now that the old one has finally stopped wondering what kind of a stiff bastard the Captain got himself as an Armoury Officer."

Trip couldn't suppress a chuckle. Yes, the liquor had helped – he mused, noticing that with the exception of Malcolm's one glass, he had drunk half a bottle of it. An idea struck him.

"I want you to be in touch every day," he said with quiet resolve. "Or I won't leave. We don't need to be in the same room to be there for each other."

Malcolm gave him a small smile: then, with a sigh, pushed to his feet. "Come on. I wouldn't mind calling it a day."

They strolled back, without hurry this time. Trip was a bit unsteady on his feet, and there was still a lot of uncertainty in his mind, but the beast inside him was keeping quiet; maybe it had called it a day too.

When they got to the gates of Starfleet and made to reach for their IDs, the guard snapped to attention with a crisp, "Commander, Lieutenant," and let them pass.

Trip suppressed a grimace. He would gladly give up notoriety if he could cancel the past year, if he could once again be the carefree Engineer who'd only wanted to explore the universe while looking after a Warp 5 engine.

They got to the entrance of the building where Trip was staying. Stopping, they faced each other, and in the artificial lights Malcolm's face looked even paler than usual.

"The last year was a hell of a rollercoaster," the man said. "But it's over; we destroyed the spheres, saved Earth and got our Captain back." His gaze was deep. "Let's try to focus on that, and get on with our lives."

Trip knew that what Malcolm wanted to say but wasn't going to, because he was too much of a friend to push the issue, was 'I hope you won't leave us; I don't want you to'. And when Trip thought of it, it might be hard to serve on the same ship with T'Pol, but actually it would be even harder to serve on another ship, far from her and from his friends – his family among the stars.

"If you're stayin' on board, would you keep an eye for me on the repairs in Engineering?" he asked, basking in the instant relief that painted itself on his friend's face.

Malcolm's frame relaxed. "Will do, Commander," he said, with a smile.

The elevator that was to take him up to his flat had arrived, but Trip took a moment to look through the building glass doors at his friend walking away. The glass of water Malcolm had come to offer him had turned into half a bottle of Whisky, but – hey – he wasn't going to complain.

Malcolm disappeared into the night, and Trip entered the elevator. Calling his floor, he collapsed against the wall, rubbing two fingers on his tired eyes. Maybe tonight he'd finally be able to sleep. And then, first thing in the morning...

Yes, he'd go home. It felt strange to think it, for his town no longer existed; but home, after all, wasn't strictly the place where he'd grown up.

Against the backdrop of his mind a pair of green eyes suddenly appeared. A man in the desert, Malcolm had called him. Jon may well be; but damn if he hadn't managed to take care of him – Trip – even in the middle of his own troubles. Maybe not first-hand, like that time in another desert, on Zobral's planet, but all the same…

Home was also on a vessel called Enterprise. Trip really couldn't imagine a life away from it, no matter what.

A smile dawned on his face, as he exited the elevator.

Thank you, Capt'n, he silently sent out.

THE END

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