Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.

This story is a follow-up to 'The Parting Gift' and may not make much sense without it. It's dedicated to Fruminous-Bandersnatch-46, who gave me the inspiration for it.

Futurefic, set at the end of the Romulan War. Warning: contains some bad language.

Beta'd by VesperRegina, to whom all due thanks!

"End recording. Save and close file. Close folder. Close programme."

He almost added 'power down', but ran out of the necessary energy. He rested his elbows on the desk top and put his face in his hands.

So that was finished. The part he'd been dreading the most – the letters to the bereaved relatives from the commanding officer of the deceased, explaining what an asset to the ship each had been and how badly they'd be missed. Like the bereaved would give a flying toss how badly the deceased's ex-comrades would miss them. All they'd care about was the fact that Enterprise had taken their loved ones away and failed to bring them home alive.

They'd won. The Romulans had finally broken off and retreated, and it seemed they weren't planning to return. But the cost had been appalling. The only reason the victory had gone to the Coalition was that they'd fought with the insane courage and absolute desperation of those whose backs were finally and utterly to the last wall. They had nothing to lose, and they'd come close – so damned close the sweat crept down the back of his neck when he let himself think about it – to losing everything.

And in spite of all, he hadn't died. He'd expected to. Hell, at one point he'd been counting on it. Maybe his nerves had gone, maybe his brain had gone, maybe the war had got to him even more than he'd realised. Maybe he'd expended all his ruthless calculation somewhere in the middle of the endless game of deadly and three-dimensional chess until everything was burned away but the idiotic yearning to be a hero, to die in some death-or-glory charge or some doomed last stand. Maybe there was Celtic blood in him somewhere, wanting to snatch a place in the songs that nobody would be alive to sing. Maybe he was just a punch-drunk bloody fool who was now blearily astonished they'd survived, and who now had to work out how to cope with a continued existence he'd never expected to have.

Mail was still one of the constants of life.

After the final debriefing he'd staggered away to his quarters, wanting only to put his head down on his pillow and cease to exist for the next forty-eight hours. He hadn't even taken his clothes off. He hadn't had the energy. But sleep had evaded him like a whore who'd taken his money and run. For an hour he'd lain awake on his bunk, staring at the darkness on which explosion after explosion bloomed in hideous replay.

He'd once thought explosions were beautiful. After the last couple of days, he never wanted to see another.

So if sleep had deserted him, there was still work. Somehow the mechanisms of his exhausted frame got him to his desk, and someone whose voice he vaguely recognised dictated letters he'd better re-read later on to make sure whoever it was had said all the right things. The stupid git sounded as though he was on the brink of tears, whoever he was, and he might have got muddled or, well, said pretty well anything. Though it was kind of him to take it on; nasty job, he hadn't been looking forward to it. If he met him in a bar one day he'd owe him a drink.

After that he'd turned automatically to the mail.

His official inbox was empty. A lot of the people who'd used to send things to it were no longer in a condition where sending mail was likely to figure largely in their plans.

His personal inbox seldom had anything in it. The odd letter from Maddie, and she wouldn't send anything till she heard he was still alive. It occurred to him dully that he ought to care that she'd still be waiting and wondering, but he couldn't find the energy. Perhaps if he ever remembered how to get some sleep he might drop her a line, just to set her mind at ease. It'd probably consist of the most unadulterated gibberish if he tried now, because making sense of anything at this moment was utterly beyond him; besides, that other chap might get his oar in and he could come out with anything. He'd make it a priority in his next lucid off-duty spell, whenever that would be. Even if he couldn't write more than a couple of lines, she'd see the auto-signature and know he'd sent it.

He checked the box anyway, out of habit.

There was one message waiting. The closed envelope withheld its secrets. Oh, he was so bloody tired. His eyes were burning, and perhaps it was just with exhaustion and strain. Perhaps now if he lay down again sleep might relent and take pity on him. Pity the wounded and the maimed, pity the dying, pity the survivors, pity those who waited and wondered; pity those who would never know, pity those who had seen and would never forget. Pity in a pitiless universe.

He grinned savagely and clicked the envelope.

The words scrolled out in front of him. A name he didn't recognise, lines of text whose meaning evaded him utterly. His eyes ran down them, understanding nothing.

The photograph halted him and his breath together.

After a moment his fingers touched the screen gently.

The coffee was black, strong and bitter. He loathed coffee, but tea wouldn't save him. The splash of whisky he'd flung into it burned down his throat into his empty stomach.

He sat down at the desk again and bore down on the words with all his remaining strength. If he tried – really tried hard, spelling out each word that caught his eye, and forcing his brain to reassemble the letters in order – he could pick out pieces of a puzzle that ought to mean something to him.

... information placed with the staff of our London office ... traced records ... DNA samples ... only remaining child ... statute ... title ... equal right ... legal obligation ... notify ...

He left the message open, unanswered, and reeled back to his bunk. The whisky bottle was still clutched in his right hand and he upended it over his mouth and drank until he choked. Then he started to laugh, unhinged guffaws that would have terrified him if he'd been there to hear them, and at some point that other git from earlier on started to cry in good earnest – huge, shaking heaves of grief that shattered on his laughter.

The racket must have been audible even in the corridor. Faces he couldn't recognise wavered at the edge of his consciousness. They were talking to him but hell, he wasn't a linguist. There were times when it was as much as he could do to understand Trip Tucker. He tried to tell them this but his tongue wasn't working and there was blood in his mouth.

Then they brought her in, and when he breathed in the jasmine scent of her some of the world came back to him in a form he could recognise. He lay with his head in her lap, a unicorn to her virgin, and disjointed sentences bled towards to the zip fastening of the pocket opposite him.

"She didn't know. She couldn't have. None of them knew. Christ, they'd have made her... And I, I'd have, I'd have, he would have, but, all those years..." He bit down on a scream. "'Call me 'Sir', Malcolm!' You can call me 'Sir' now, you bastard."

The room was cool and dark. The faces had gone away, and only she was his confessor. Tremors ran through his overheated body. "He died, Hoshi. He died and left me with ...him. He left me with that bastard. That heartless rat-bastard with his fucking Traditions." His shaking fists were in front of his chin and blood oozed through his fingers where his nails had bitten in. "And she, she never said, why didn't she, anything for peace and quiet I suppose, he had her nailed, but I was the failure, the runt, the ... I... he..." An almost animal howl tore itself out of him. "Hoshi, hold me!"

His face was pressed into warm cotton that smelled of jasmine, his arms were clamped around her, and somehow the cracks that were spreading across his brain slowed and stopped. He gasped and gulped, feeling quietness pass out of her and into him through the hand that was gently cradling his head and the lips that were pressed to his wet forehead. Her other hand was flattened protectively against his back, and she was rocking him. After a moment he realised that his forehead was wet because of the tears that were running silently down her face. "No..." Not for me, I'm not worth it. He realised too that her slender body was rigid with the pain she was containing, the pain from the pressure of his arms around her, and with some difficulty he forced them to loosen. But he couldn't release her completely; the act was outside his universe.

She moved gently, drawing him with her. Now they were lying flat on his bunk, and some agency beyond his comprehension softly covered the two of them with a blanket. His breathing was slowing, his pulse dropping from its frantic racing, and he was so tired, so tired beyond expression. The smell of jasmine was paradise, was sanctuary.

"Rest, Malcolm. Go to sleep." Oh, she had such a beautiful voice. There shouldn't be the catch of tears in it. All wrong. He tried to tell her not to cry, but he was too tired; all that emerged was a faint moan. Her fingers were stroking his hair now, and with every movement the black sea of utter exhaustion was creeping over him to drown him at last. Fathoms deep forgetfulness, with the smell of jasmine. She must be worn out too. She'd matched him hour for hour on the bridge, manning the comm station to keep the channels open with the rest of the desperate fleet. Somehow he wavered up a hand to touch her face.

Come with me, love.

Her hand touched his. "It's all right now, Malcolm. I won't leave you."

Pity, in a pitiless universe. Or perhaps it was friendship. Or perhaps it was love. But whatever it was, it was enough.

He closed his eyes.

And at last, he slept.

The End.

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