"I think that's enough for today."

Self defence training was mandatory for the officers aboard a starship, though all ranks were encouraged to attend lessons. It was Malcolm's role to supervise, though he often took part in the sparring himself, and had done so this evening – taking on T'Pol, who was probably the only member of the crew whose skills were at least the equal of his own. At least in the pure physical exertion of a self-defence bout he could forget his other troubles, and the atmosphere in the gym during the past half-hour or so had been almost cheerful.

It was almost a disappointment to have to bring the session to an end. Back to Coventry, he thought.

"Your grasp of the Ke-tarya is improving," the Vulcan remarked, passing him his towel. "It's gratifying to see my tuition is bearing fruit."

Reed smiled at that. At least T'Pol wasn't treating him any differently. This was as close as the Vulcan came to teasing.

"It's a tribute to the skill of the teacher," he replied.

"Not necessarily." She raised one eyebrow. "It also presupposes some degree of receptiveness in the pupil."

His smile broadened. "I'll take that as high praise."

"It's more than the rest of us ever get." Trip was walking past, and flicked him with the end of his towel.

"It's more than some of the rest of you deserve." He'd have retaliated in kind, but the chief engineer had skipped out of range with more agility than dignity, knowing what was coming.

Now for it. He swallowed, and raised his voice. "Captain."

Archer had been sparring with Travis, but though the training period was over he'd squatted down to discuss some part of the bout with the young ensign, who was still sitting on the training mat where his CO had unceremoniously dumped him. Now he looked up in surprise, hearing his tactical officer call him. "Lieutenant?"

A month ago it'd have been 'Malcolm'. The realisation twisted in him painfully. "Sir. After watching you today, I think you require some additional practice."

Silence had fallen in the gymnasium. Archer straightened up, his face unreadable.

"You're the Tactical Officer, Lieutenant. Fix us a date, and I'll be there."

He held the cold hazel gaze somehow. "If you're feeling up to it, sir, I think the present would be as good a time as any."

There was a long, long pause. Then, at last, "I guess I can handle it." A glance flickered around the rest of his officers. "You don't have to hang around."

The silence endured as the rest filed out. Trip was the last to leave, and as he stepped into the corridor he threw an eloquent glance backward at the immobile tactical officer. Watch your step here, buddy.

The door hissed shut. The silence grew even thicker, if that were possible.

"Well, Lieutenant, I'm all yours." Archer's tone was a very, very thin shade off sarcasm. "Is there anything in particular you feel I need coaching on?"

"I think a practice bout might be the best way to illustrate what you need, sir."

He deliberately hadn't engaged in a bout with the captain since the incident. He hoped it hadn't been obvious, but in hindsight it had probably been glaringly so. The problem was, Archer wasn't the best of the officers – he was game, but it just wasn't a thing he was particularly keen on doing. His technique was decent, but he had real problems summoning up the necessary aggression against any member of his crew. Some days even Hoshi slapped him around a bit. Time had been when losing to his tactical officer had been just something that he expected to happen, and they'd both enjoyed him trying to put in at least a couple of hits before the inevitable end. Now, however, it wouldn't be something either of them would enjoy. There would be too many shades of meaning, too much bitterness and resentment festering under the surface.

Well, in his experience there was only one effective treatment when a situation was festering.

Lancing it.

Something crossed the captain's face, so quickly he might have imagined it. But Archer merely nodded, and closed the space between them with steps so controlled it was impossible to say whether he was eager, reluctant or merely compliant.

The last time they'd been this close had been in the Brig. The memories hung between them, tangible as the smoke from a trust that had gone up in flames.

I never would have believed that you, of all people.

The Malcolm Reed I know would give his life before committing treason.

You've betrayed everything that uniform stands for.

I thought I knew you, Malcolm.

The two of them had hardly dropped into a fighting crouch before Malcolm opened the attack, launching an axe kick at an angle he knew the captain found hard to deal with. Sure enough, his heel scored down Archer's chest, hard enough to leave a bruise. And as he spun away, neatly avoiding the retaliatory strike, he grinned. Openly.

It was the opening passage of what could as well have been a master-class in a bewildering variety of martial arts, expressly designed to make his opponent look utterly incompetent. He didn't hit the captain hard again, he made sure of that; he also made sure that the punch-pulling was obvious. He could hardly have put more effort into it if he'd been trying to down T'Pol at her best. Archer was not only beaten, he was utterly and totally humiliated – an experience that would act like a rush of oxygen on the smouldering anger inside him.

Malcolm saw it ignite. Fanned it with a bit more fancy footwork that left his opponent floundering, and didn't do enough to hide a faint, mocking quirk of the lips. Dabbed a couple more strikes on the ribs, and one on the bum for good measure. Evaded the increasingly wild and angry attacks the captain launched at him, and went on making it plain just who was the boss around here.

The murderous flare in the hazel eyes gave him a split second's warning, but that was all he'd ever needed.

The strike came straight for his face, hard and fast, Archer's fist like a hammer with every ounce of his injury and rage behind it. It was good, but Malcolm knew the block that would counter it, and the move to follow that would send his attacker flying face-downwards, completing his abject defeat.

He used neither the block nor the counter-move. He just dropped his hands, and took the punch.

The captain had neither the time nor the expertise to stop or even soften the blow. It connected with all the force he'd put into it, and Reed was spun around and thrown across the floor like a rag doll.

It felt as though a shuttlepod had flown through the wall and hit him. As he lay still, trying to pull back together the aching shreds of his consciousness, he wondered if his jaw was dislocated or even broken. It would be more of a surprise if it wasn't either. He moved it gingerly, waiting for the grinding sensation.

"Malcolm! – Goddamn it, Malcolm!" Archer was on his knees beside him, touching him with fear and aching remorse. The care in his voice was music to his tactical officer's ears. "Stay still, I'll get Phlox –"

"I think – that may not be necessary, sir."

"Damn it, I could have broken your jaw!"

He flexed it a bit less cautiously. There was blood on his mouth, but that was because the force of the blow had driven his teeth into his lip.

"I don't think you have, sir. Though I have to say I'm a bit surprised myself." He put his head down on the floor again, hoping that doing so might help to reduce the sensation of having been kicked in the face by a horse. It didn't improve it significantly, but there didn't seem to be any particular reason to get up right now. He shut his eyes, not thinking about anything.

Archer sat down beside him. For a couple of minutes there was silence.

"You did that on purpose, didn't you?" the captain said at last.

Malcolm opened one eye and surveyed him rather warily. Archer's expression wasn't particularly informative; nor was his voice, which was full of subtle sub-tones that Hoshi would have had more luck translating.

"You engineered the whole damn thing. You wanted me to hit you," the captain went on, still in that almost reflective way.

There was another pause.

"I think you needed to, sir. I think – it was the only way to put things right. Or at least make a start towards it." He peered up earnestly, and a little anxiously, at his commanding officer. "And perhaps I needed it too. It felt like – justice, somehow."

The older man gazed down thoughtfully at his fist, which bore the mark of the blow across its knuckles. Maybe he too felt that forgiveness had been too cheaply offered and too carelessly accepted; that there had been a debt unpaid. Certainly the quality of the silence between them had changed.

It wasn't absolution, but then he hadn't expected that. Perhaps it was the beginning of restoration. And now, for the first time, he dared to believe that it was possible.

Captain Archer got back to his feet, and then squatted to help his tactical officer get to his.

"Take it easy. And I'm taking you to Sickbay, just to get Phlox to give you the once-over."

Crap. Not Sickbay again. "It's not necessary, sir. Honestly." He rotated his jaw to prove the point, even at some cost to himself.

A grin of sorts appeared on the lean face opposite him. "Malcolm. I nearly knocked your damned head off, even if you did let me. I need my Tactical Officer in one piece, and my CMO is the only one I'll trust to make that judgment."

And nobody will ever know from me that I let you do it. He'd forgotten his bitten lip, but remembered it when his faint, crooked smile in answer twinged it.

They were standing directly opposite each other again, but this time it was different. It wasn't like it had been before, but it would have been unrealistic to expect that; miracles were for Bible stories, not starships. Nevertheless a healing process of sorts had begun. Archer's hands on his shoulders, holding him steady, felt natural rather than forced. And he, in his turn, was able to accept the grip rather than endure it.

The captain let him go, and smacked him lightly on the back of the shoulder. "Let's go. I'd mention catching something to eat, but I'll guess you won't be up for that now."

"There's always soup, if I'm desperate."

He still wasn't quite steady on his feet. If truth were told, he was quite glad that his CO walked close beside him down the corridor, ready to extend a supporting arm if he needed one; glad in more than one way, because it felt right again to have him there.

He'd taken a risk. Not many starship captains would relish having their tactical officer practise their skills on them. But there again, Jonathan Archer wasn't your average starship captain. That was one of the things that had forged his crew into the force that had taken on the Delphic Expanse and won. That was one of the reasons why – despite the many times the two of them hadn't seen anything like eye to eye on matters of security – Malcolm wanted more than anything not to have to leave the ship. After serving aboard Enterprise, with its quirky, eclectic mix of characters and its unique sense of fellowship, he wouldn't want to serve anywhere else.

Must be getting sentimental in my old age, he thought, as the double doors of Sickbay hissed open and Phlox's initial welcoming smile faded into a look of resignation the mirror of his own.

"Well, Mister Reed, what is it this time?"

There was still a chance for a small, unworthy revenge. He pointed accusingly at the captain.

"He hit me."

Author's note: Malcolm's thought 'Back to Coventry' refers to an English expression 'to send someone to Coventry', meaning to exclude and ignore them. The expression is thought to date back to the English Civil War in the 1640's, when Royalist soldiers were stationed at the staunchly Parliamentarian city of Coventry and were therefore utterly ostracised by the people among whom they had to live.

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