Jon was looking out of the window when the door hissed open.

"Your visitor, Captain," said T'Pol. She ushered the huge man into the room and left, leaving an Armory ensign on guard duty outside.

For a moment longer he went on staring out at the motionless stars. They didn't even gleam on the dark hull of the freighter currently attached to Enterprise's docking port. It reflected nothing at all; the ship didn't even display a name, only a series of numbers in accordance with trade regulations.

He was willing to bet that if he put this into the computer in the search for information, it would either come up with classified or with some load of baloney that wouldn't stand five minutes' investigation. At a guess, Travis was giving the craft the interested eye; the young boomer-born helmsman had been off duty last time the two ships had docked, but he'd be awake now, and it didn't take much imagination to suppose that Trip would recruit his expertise to learn all that could be learned about the new arrival.

It was the Section's ship. It belonged to a part of the organization that seemed to regard itself as beyond any accountability, whose representative had dragged Malcolm back into a past he'd tried so hard to leave behind; and though in the circumstances there was no doubt whatsoever that Reed would count his peace well lost for love, it was still lost. Maybe – abhorrent as the thought was – lost for good.

Had Harris foreseen this? Was this some second plan behind the first, to get back the services of an operative they'd never wanted to lose? Even so badly damaged, Malcolm could still be useful. He could still kill. Maybe now he wouldn't even care about that either.

There was no movement in the room behind him, even when he deliberately let the pause drag out, the only expression he could find of his impotence and anger.

Finally, however, he swung around.

Flat, emotionless black eyes met his. Leo stood just inside the door, as completely at ease as though he was standing on his own flight deck.

"You called me, Captain." The voice was as deep as he remembered. It betrayed neither curiosity nor concern. It simply stated the fact.

"Yes." He should say thank you for coming, or some other commonplace civility. He was being churlish, and he couldn't help it.

Silence. The other man knew why he was being a boor and was indifferent to both the omission and to his reason for it.

"Why have you been following us?" Jon demanded at last, his voice an open challenge.

"Why have you asked me to come on board?" Leo responded evenly.

The question only stoked his helpless ire further. He walked to the table and rested his fists on it. "I think you already know the answer to that."

"I have some idea. The rest of it is up to you, Captain."

Jon stared at him. He might as well have been staring at a cliff-face. The carved black visage gave back nothing, not even the echo of his hostility. Finally, "You knew it was going to happen, didn't you?"

"I guessed," the deep voice said. "I saw the way he was acting, and I guessed."

"And you stayed because…?"

"Because, Captain Archer, you aren't the only commanding officer who cares about his crew." Leo glanced out of the window, towards his own ship. "He learned his trade aboard my ship, he was one of my crew. I knew someday he'd leave, I knew someday he'd figure out that life wasn't what he wanted; hell, I knew it a long time before he did. But that didn't make losing him any easier. Just because we work on the wrong side of the rules doesn't mean we don't care for our own."

"He's not one of 'your own' anymore. He signed on as an officer in my crew, on my ship, under my command!"

"Captain." Something close to compassion tinged the other man's tone. "You and your crew have achieved extraordinary things. You've earned your place in the history books. But not even you and the people who work with you and follow you can always do everything."

Jon's head drooped. He'd had to learn that ugly truth afresh with every eulogy, and he'd written too many. And yet it still wasn't real. Not when it was one of his crew, one of his senior officers, one of his … hell, maybe still one of his 'friends', whatever Malcolm felt on that score; a man whom he saw every day on the Bridge, whom he trusted to keep his ship safe – yes, trusted, in spite of everything.

He hadn't had time, yet, to process everything that had happened over the course of the mission. As the ship's captain, he rarely had free time in which to reflect on events – even those which demanded a rethink of some very important matters, not least of which was the recognition that his own blind arrogance in insisting on being a part of the mission had so nearly ensured it ended in disaster. But over the past couple of days he'd found that he was beginning to understand his tactical officer just a little better; to have had a glimpse into his past was to comprehend far better why he kept such walls around himself, and why his protectiveness of the ship sometimes carried in it a tinge almost of obsession. He didn't have to wonder what dangers were 'out there' … he'd been 'out there.'

"He won't talk," he said almost inaudibly. "I'm running out of options. I want to do what's best for him. Maybe a Starfleet medical center … people properly trained to treat mental trauma…"

Leo's lip curled. "People who don't understand him. People who've only read the books. People who've never been out here. People who want to cure him instead of letting him cure himself."

"So what makes you think you can do better? With no training at all?"

"We can let him be himself." The answer was so soft it was barely audible. "We can let him curse if he wants to, and cry if he needs to. Without having to keep up a front. Without having to be ashamed. He's hurting, Captain. He's hurting so much I'm frankly surprised he hasn't spaced himself already. You and your ship must mean a very great deal to him."

The unexpected admission stiffened Jon's wavering resolve. For right or wrong, he felt suddenly that he and Section 31 were locked in a battle for Malcolm Reed's soul; that if once he let him be taken away, he might never get him back – never get to make his peace with a complex man who had risked so much so often to protect his comrades and serve his ship.

Maybe it was a ploy. Maybe if once they got their hands on him, that would be it. Maybe even if he wanted to return to his duty on board Enterprise, they'd find ways to stop him. Where the Section were concerned, who could say?

Jon stared across at the Section's enigmatic team leader, who was so opaque to him but seemed to feel some kind of compassion for the man he'd used to command. Useless to ask if this was indeed some scheme of Harris's. He knew already there would be no reply.

Nevertheless, in spite of all his anger, his fears and suspicions, he knew too that it was only fair that Malcolm be given the choice. A cruel kindness to inflict on a sick man: to follow the old loyalty or the new… but they had, indeed, run out of options. There was no healing for Malcolm Reed aboard Enterprise.

And this time, the question would be answered once and for all.

Who do you answer to now, Malcolm?

They encountered Travis, just leaving Sickbay.

"You all right?" said Jon, the informality recognizing that his junior officer was off duty.

The helmsman appeared slightly embarrassed. "Fine, sir. I was … I was just checking up on Lieutenant Reed." He glanced, slightly awe-struck, at Leo's massive frame. "I've … I've just been bringing him up to speed on what's been happening round the place. And sort of – keeping him company."

The captain nodded. "I'm sure he appreciates that."

Travis grinned. "I hope so, sir, but you know Malcolm." He departed, doubtless in search of dinner.

Phlox was preparing a set of hypospray cartridges when they went in. His usual dauntless smile was somewhat dimmed when he recognized the visitor. Yes, he said, Mister Reed was awake, and there was no reason why they shouldn't speak to him, but he was very tired. It would be best to cause him as little disturbance as possible, so that he could get to sleep soon.

Conscious of the doctor's steady blue gaze on his back, Jon led the way to the one occupied bed, currently protected by drawn privacy screens.

"Malcolm?" he called. "Mind if we come in for a minute?"

"Sir." The English voice was dull and listless.

Taking that as permission, he pushed through the screens.

The tactical officer was sitting propped half-upright on pillows, his bandaged hands resting on the blanket covering him. An IV line trailed from a cannula on one of them, leading to a drip set up beside the bed.

For one who was ordinarily so incurably restless, it seemed strange to see him without even a single PADD to hand. It seemed that he'd simply been lying there silently waiting to sleep, perhaps exhausted by Travis's chatter – if, indeed he'd heard a word of it.

As Leo pushed through in his wake, the captain observed Malcolm narrowly. He'd have heard the exchange with Phlox, so he'd know who one of his visitors was. It was unlikely in the extreme that he'd be expecting the other, and his reaction in this unprepared state could be extremely revealing.

Either the Section's training died hard, in spite of everything, or he was too exhausted to care. There was no perceptible change to the pale, weary face; he simply noted their presence and waited to see what more was to be asked of him.

"Malcolm, I'm sorry to have to lay this on you." After an infinitesimal pause in which Jon realized that he had no idea what he could possibly say to soften the facts, he went straight to the point. "I think you'll agree, as things stand you're not fit for duty."

No response. He simply lay there and accepted the statement as though he didn't give a damn either way.

"But we have a problem," Jon pursued. "One of the ship's officers is lost."

That got a reaction. The blank eyes sharpened, and cut to him. His free hand moved to the cannula as though intending to remove it. "Sir–"

"It's going to be a tough mission to get them back," the captain went on. "So I want the best person available for the job."

He watched Malcolm's mind tally up the possible casualties, fearfully selecting the likeliest, and then trawl through the possible candidates for a rescuer, rejecting them all as not up to the task. One of his charges was missing, maybe in grave danger; someone, perhaps, from his own team, and the knowledge had been kept from him!

"Sir," he said again. "We have to start searching as soon as possible. If you can give me all the information you have–"

"That's what I was hoping you'd say," admitted Jon. "I think you're the ideal person for this job. Actually, I wouldn't entrust it to anyone else."

Adrenaline was kicking in now. I turn my back on this bloody ship for five minutes, and they go and lose somebody. If it hadn't been so desperately serious it would have been funny.

The suspense was too much to bear. "So who have we lost, Captain?"

A pause.

"My tactical officer."

Malcolm became very still.

"This gentleman here," Jon indicated Leo with a gesture, "believes he has the best chance of recovering him if you tag along for a while. And I think he may be right. At any rate, I want to take that chance. Because my missing officer was a hell of an asset to the ship and a hell of a good friend. And I want him back."

The gray eyes fastened on him as though trying to tear out the truth by force.

"And what if … what if we don't find him, sir? What if …"

"I think you will," said the captain gently. "And when you do, it'll be good to have him back."

The man in the bed was silent for a long moment. "An officer who deserts his ship isn't an asset," he whispered at last, bitterly. "He's a traitor."

"He is if he left it on purpose. If he couldn't help it – if he was just human – then in my book that's a different matter. I'm guessing he's just forgotten for a while that Enterprise is still his home, and we're still his family. Maybe you could remind him, when you see him."

A small, slow nod. "Maybe I could."

"We've got a little job to do not far from here," Leo's deep voice intervened for the first time. "Something that calls for an explosives expert. I was thinking he might be checking the place out."

"It sounds like his sort of thing." For the first time, a shadowy hope flickered into life on the drained face opposite him. He met the captain's gaze a little diffidently. "I – I don't think it will take me that long to find him, sir."

"I'm counting on that, Malcolm."

Jon shook Malcolm's hand and stepped back. "Good luck. We'll be waiting for you to call us."

"Thank you, sir. I will. And – be careful with Enterprise in the meantime."

A smile. "I'll do my best. If you need us, you know where we'll be."

Malcolm nodded, and bent to pick up his carryall, disregarding how painful it must be with his injured hand. Leo walked through the airlock, and he followed him. In the hatch of the other ship, he stopped and looked back. Leo put a hand on his shoulder, and he too looked back. The dark gaze met Jon's squarely. I'll look after him for you.

Trip's fingers were clumsy on the command panel, but eventually the outer and inner hatches closed. The light sequence said that undocking was complete. Nobody wanted to look at the scanner and know the exact second when the freighter went to warp and was gone.

"You think we've done the right thing, lettin' him go?" asked Tucker at last.

"I think we've done the only thing." Jon sighed. "I talked it over with Admiral Gardner last night – he wasn't surprised. I think he'd already heard from Harris's people. They were going to send us a temporary replacement, but I said we could handle it ourselves. As far as Starfleet are concerned, Malcolm will be regarded as 'on special assignment'. It's the same as if he was signed off sick, and they don't even have to pay for the treatment," he added bitterly. "It keeps the bean-counters happy."

"I have every confidence in the lieutenant," T'Pol said quietly. "He said to me once that 'defeat doesn't lie in being knocked down; it lies in not getting up again.' And, sooner or later, I know he will get up again."

"I'll drink to that." The chief engineer looked around at both of them. "I've got a few beers in my chiller. T'Pol, I can fix you a mint tea or somethin'. How about a drink before we turn in?"

They nodded, and the three of them began walking towards Trip's cabin.

"I do not think tea would be a suitable medium with which to drink a toast," said T'Pol suddenly. "In the circumstances, I will accept a beer if you have one to spare."

"Sure." He was obviously startled, both by her perspicacity and by her offer to drink alcohol.

Jon grinned faintly. He wondered if she ever realized how much she'd changed since she came on board; or how much richer she'd made their lives.

They reached Trip's quarters and went in. The contrast between its desk and notice-board, crowded and cheerful with letters and photographs from home, and those in Malcolm's quarters, which had boasted nothing more than a lithograph of HMS Victory and a copy of the latest crew roster, was painful.

Jon sat on the bunk. T'Pol sat on the chair by the desk, looking curiously at a photograph in a frame: Trip, fast asleep on a front porch swing, with an infant Tucker equally asleep in the curve of his arm. He was wearing a T-shirt that said THEY BREAK IT, I MEND IT.

Maybe that was true for Malcolm's old team too.

Trip returned with three opened bottles. T'Pol took hers a little doubtfully. At a guess, Vulcans didn't drink straight out of bottles.

"Just for once," said Jon softly.

Trip sat beside him. T'Pol leaned forward a little. There was a tiny pause, while they all thought their own thoughts and wondered what toast would be appropriate.

Finally, Trip lifted his bottle slightly.

"To 'gettin' up again.'"

The End...

at least for now! :)

All reviews received with gratitude!