4Disclaimer: Star Trek and all its intellectual property belongs to Paramount/CBS. No infringement intended, no money made.
"Sir, I was wondering if you'd have time to check over the training schedules for the next month."
Malcolm had just entered the gymnasium, but checked at encountering his bête noir in residence. Still the man was on the way out, so that wasn't going to be a problem. "I probably have, Major, but as I'm sure you're aware, your arrangements are always perfectly adequate. Is there anything specific you wanted to discuss?"
Hayes looked back at him, his face as rigid as always. The military man par excellence, the MACO major of a professional unit taking orders from a mere squid lieutenant. From an amateur. A Royal Navy reject.
Hating every moment of it.
Malcolm wanted to hit him. No, longed to hit him, with a fervour that would have tripped off all kinds of alarms if he'd only let himself listen to any of them.
"Nothing specific, sir. I'm sorry for taking up your time."
"Not in the least, Major. A good officer should always be available."
Afterwards – a long time afterwards – he wondered whether there had been more than he'd consciously intended in that sarcastic rider. Definitely Matthew Hayes thought so, for next moment Malcolm's back was driven against the wall so hard the breath came out of his lungs in an audible grunt – at least until the pressure of a hard mouth against his stopped it in its tracks.
After that, a lot happened, interrupted only by the brief slap of a hand against the gymnasium door control to prevent anyone walking in.
There wasn't much talking, not much said at all but for the inevitable; and even that was snarled, because he was so angry – no, so damned furious – and ohgodohgodohgod it felt so good...
Later, he'll find the bites. And for a week or so it'll be noticeable that Major Matthew Hayes wears full-body T-shirts during training, probably because he'd delivered a few in his turn, between the frenzy of rage and the agony of relief.
Now, they're lying side by side on the matting. Hayes' shirt is rucked up to his neck; they hadn't even bothered stripping off before they...
"Does this solve anything?" Hayes asks, when his chest's stopped rising and falling quite so hard, and he's got his voice back to something nearly normal. Near enough, if you weren't listening in pain and horror for the change.
"Only insofar as we're both fucked." Malcolm stares at the ceiling.
Hayes chuckles a little bitterly. "This is the Expanse. Everything here is fucked."
And that's the truth if he's ever heard it; everything, from Trip Tucker transformed into a bitter man consumed by the lust for revenge, to Jonathan Archer become a torturer and a thief.
"Aren't you allowed to snatch a little joy out of a one-way trip?" the MACO continues, and it sounds so much like a taunt that for an instant Malcolm's fists clench. But it's a rhetorical question, asked of the rules and regulations that govern their lives even here, and neither of them have any reply that will satisfy the little tin gods that both of them answer to.
Was what they just had 'joy'? Other than the physical release, he's not sure, but then he's not sure of a lot of things anymore; sometimes it seems to him that the crew of the Seleya were the sane ones who got off lightly, while the Enterprise is doomed to wander the galaxy forever like some latter-day Marie Celeste, crewed by warped and wretched ghosts of their former selves.
For all they know, the weapon could already have been launched. Far behind them, Planet Earth may already be rubble, the human race reduced to a remnant to be hunted to and fro and finally extinguished. Nightly he fights off despair, daily hides the ravages of it behind the prim and proper shell of an English officer. He feels as if he's holding vigil over a ship of the dead – dead dreams, dead innocence, dead good intentions, dead morals; all sacrificed on an altar to a nonexistent God who laughs out of the abyss at their hope and desperation.
It should be so much easier for him. It's not as if he has any innocence to lose, he's no stranger to torture and theft, and as for 'good intentions', his intentions are as good as the steps necessary to do his job. But something in him broke the day he saw Archer's moral compass smashed, saw the ugliness of his own ruin held up like a mirror in front of him.
Whatever ... whatever 'this' is, he wants it to continue. He wants there to be one light in the darkness. He wants there to be a hand to hold, even if sometimes the grip is closer to arm-wrestling for control of the herd, because they're both leaders, both aggressive and determined men.
"I can't." It's as much to himself as to Hayes. Because the minute you have a hand to hold you have a hand to lose, and that kind of caring is something he gave up long ago. Everything – even this – has to be sacrificed, and even as he acknowledges that as a verdict without appeal he feels another heart-deep pang that tells him the bitter cost.
Hayes wants to argue. He hears the indrawn breath and can't let himself listen, because there's more at stake here than a wasteland of loneliness, more to lose than the chain of command crumbling into a vortex of need and pleasure.
Before the words can be said he jerks himself upright, clawing for his discarded sweat-pants. The loathsome lassitude from his lapse makes him slow and clumsy, and he curses under his breath.
"Malcolm." He freezes at the word, at the gentleness in it. A gentleness that hurts worse than any epithet would. "Do yourself a favor. Now and again, just remember you're human like the rest of us."
'Human like the rest of us.' Oh Major, if only you knew...
It's the panic fear of his own weakness that has him scrambling into his clothes. Because the gentleness is so alluring, and the howling horror of the trap fills his mind to the exclusion of almost everything else. Not that Hayes has any such intention – he acquits him of that – but then it's Hayes on whom the trap's jaws would close; they've closed on everyone for whom he's ever made the mistake of caring, and he's not about to claim another victim.
Maybe it's only now that he realises that somewhere, deep down, he cherishes the spark of hope that somehow, somewhere, there'll be a way out of this for all of them. And if that's true, then giving in to the gentleness and all it offers would mean this was more than a 'fuck and forget', and ... and the thought of Hayes' inevitable incomprehension and pain twists inside him like a blade, unbearable.
"I'm sure the schedule is perfectly acceptable." He forces the words through a knotted throat as he gets to his feet. "I apologise for any – any lack of professionalism in my conduct just now."
Hayes is getting to his own feet, his movements jerky with anger. "So that's it? That's all this was to you? A lapse in your damned professionalism?"
"It could never be anything else." He forces himself to meet the blazing eyes; he owes the man that much, if nothing more is possible. Out of his core he summons the cold, the merciless Section cold, ice beats fire, and through it he watches bewilderment and loss and fury chase one another across Hayes' face until realisation sets in that he's lost – that both of them have lost – and that they could stand here glaring at one another till the Xindi have eliminated Humanity and nothing would ever be different.
The major draws himself up, the picture of military discipline that's all the more tragic for the fact that his shirt's still rucked up around his armpits. "Then I won't waste any more of your time, sir."
Malcolm wants to buckle. He'd give his soul, if he still had one, if it was possible to thrust aside all that he is and all that he's done and give himself over to the last opportunity he'll probably ever have to find something worth living for.
But the Expanse takes no prisoners, and the trap has no pity. He's caused enough pain and the realisation stiffens his spine. Better for both of them to get the suffering over and done with now, to crush the seedling before it can send out roots into both their souls that will only have to be torn out later.
"I think that would be for the best, Major," he says coolly, and loathes the sound of his own voice. "I believe we have a staff briefing at eleven hundred tomorrow in the Armoury. I'll see you there."
"Sir."
On the word he wheels about, strides to the door and slaps the control. If there's anyone outside he'll send them away while his victim gets himself restored to respectability, but fortunately for everyone the corridor's empty. Without a backward glance he strides away, and not a muscle in his face betrays the feeling that his heart is falling in on itself like a collapsing star.
Reaching his own quarters, he heads for the bathroom, shedding his clothes in a trail along the floor. As he reaches it, he makes the mistake of glancing sideways at the mirror above the sink. There, reflected, he sees the unmasked horror of Section Agent Jaguar, who smirks back at him with satisfied malice.
His fist moves without thought. Jaguar vanishes in an explosion of shattering glass.
And long after his ration of water is exhausted, Malcolm's still sitting alone in the shower cubicle, hugging his knees and watching the blood from his knuckles trickle slowly down the drain.
