I'm so sorry it's taken me so long to get this updated. This chapter nearly killed me, but at least it's a substantial one. I'd also like to apologize that having not updated in something like seven months, this is a Martin chapter. I mean, you all wanted to know how Martin and company ended up in jail, right? Spock comes in near the end, but Uhura's sitting this one out. The good news is it's Martin's last big appearance. He's in one more scene after this, but it's small. I hope it's worth the wait.

Cooling your heels in the small hours of the morning in an English jail was even less appealing than it sounded.

To Martin, it felt like he and his teammates had spent the better part of the night on the wrong side of the flimsy, civilian-grade security barrier that marked the doorway to the holding cell at the Oxford police station waiting for Commander Parker to come and ride herd over them back to the hotel.

Parker. Shit. He didn't want to think about what they were all in for once she got her hands on them. If they were lucky, she'd at least defer the inevitable lecture so they could all get a few hours of sleep before the competition later that morning. Unless she pulled the team out altogether and took them home.

Ignoring the way the room lurched to the side when he stood, Martin stalked over to the front of the cell, his heart pounding as hard as if he'd just sprinted a 10k without the benefit of four years of Starfleet physical conditioning. He pressed his palm to the clear wall separating the cell from the processing area. The surface had none of the familiar iciness of the transparent aluminum used in the manufacture of starship ports, but it was still cool and smooth, and he leaned his forehead next to where his hand rested and tried to keep from gasping for breath.

Parker couldn't cut the competition short. She couldn't do that to him…them. The shaky breathlessness was as foreign and unfamiliar to him as the plastic feel of the front wall of the cell and the uninspired, utilitarian room beyond it. Parker wouldn't make them go home now. She couldn't.

Shit.

Maybe if he wasn't so fuzzy on how the fight that had landed his team and the girls from UCLA there had started, he wouldn't feel like ripping his hair out of his head. Except other than Caressa, Zhelen was the only one who seemed to know the whole story, and the Andorian wasn't talking. He just sat on a bench as far away from the door as he could get, slumped over in exhaustion or defeat or maybe humiliation and not looking at or talking to anyone.

Martin didn't blame him. While UCLA and the rest of the Starfleet team had been crowded into the stark, gray-walled holding cell, Zhelen had been dragged off by the officer in charge to explain…what? How three groups of visiting students ended up brawling in the middle of a public street? At least they'd put those morons from Penn, who had to have started the whole thing, someplace…else, he didn't know where. He'd lost track during processing. Hopefully some dark, dank, dungeon-like cave. Someplace with weeping stone walls and rats the size of dogs. Maybe in shackles.

After what had seemed like hours, Zhelen had finally been escorted to the cell. He'd pushed past Martin, who'd been lurking right inside the entry since the containment field across it had crackled and sparked into being. His hands had been shoved deep into his pockets, and his shoulders and antennae both curled inward so that the normally expansive, cocky Andorian looked small and subdued. He hadn't spoken at all. Not when Martin had followed him to the back of the cell peppering him with questions, and not when the officer who'd accompanied Zhelen had announced they weren't being charged with anything.

The tension keeping Martin on his feet had bled out of him, an infection rotting just beneath the skin finally sliced open. He'd collapsed against the wall in relief, his legs momentarily too weak to support his weight, but that blissful sense of bonelessness had been short-lived. Barely before the officer had finished speaking, he'd pushed back onto his feet and rushed to the front of the cell to quiz the man about when they'd be getting out. They weren't.

Not yet.

The teams' respective advisors had been called in to ride herd over them back to their hotel, and no one could go until they got there. Which meant Parker was going to expect some reasonable explanation about how they'd ended up in the clink, and Martin was clueless about what had actually gone down. Without Spock, he was the ranking cadet. How was he supposed to explain anything to Parker if he had no idea what had happened?

For a second, he was tempted to march over and shake Zhelen. Demand he explain what happened, but Zhelen was hunched over his knees on the bench he'd claimed, aggressively ignoring everyone. Still, pulled inside himself. Still leaving Martin totally in the dark.

No one could misinterpret that body language. Martin settled for pacing back and forth along the transparent wall at the front of the cell and tried to dredge up any remnant floating around his brain that would tell him how the fight had started.

Not long after the dart game had broken up, they'd all left the pub together, his team and the women from UCLA, and headed back to the hotel where they all were staying. If nothing else, that memory was clear. Zhelen and Caressa had lagged behind, whispering and laughing together, the Andorian determined to cheer the blonde girl up after Spencer's sudden exit.

Martin hadn't paid too much attention to them other than making sure they didn't fall too far back. He hadn't thought he'd needed to. He'd been talking to Angela, who on top of being pretty in a way that was delicate and yet sharp and aggressive, was smart and funny. She'd grown up in Los Gatos, only about ten minutes away from his parents' house, and they knew a lot of the same people, it was a small miracle they'd never met before.

The sounds of a scuffle had intruded on their conversation, and by the time he'd turned around, a full-on brawl had been raging behind them. Reacting mostly on instinct, he'd jumped into the middle of the fray and dragged Caressa off the back of some poor guy wearing a Huskies jacket and a red, white, and blue beanie. Zhelen could hold his own in a fight easily, but surprisingly, so could Caressa. But the guy she'd jumped? Not so much. She'd been hitting him over and over again on the head with her purse, one of those miniscule things girls complained never held enough to be useful but carried anyway, and doing a surprising amount of damage.

By the time the police broke things up, Gunheim, Heather and Dave were involved, and things had gotten out of hand, mostly because of Caressa. The girl fought dirty, not paying any attention to who she hit or why. More than once, she'd clipped Martin in the side with a flailing elbow or kicked him with a pointed, high-heeled shoe when he'd gotten too close. And because he'd been trying to herd her away from the main fight, certain Gunheim and Zhelen would be able to deescalate things if he could take Caressa out of the equation, he'd always been too close.

Martin was less than effective as a herder. On top of being fast, Caressa was fearless, and she'd slipped around him at least a half dozen times, usually flinging herself at the first person she saw. By that time the cops arrived, she'd inadvertently assaulted him so fiercely and so often, he'd almost thanked them for the intervention.

He was going to have a very interesting set of bruises when he woke up. If he ever got to sleep.

Coolly and efficiently, the two officers who'd arrived shut everything down as quickly as it'd started. Well, except for Caressa. Even after the fight ended, the blonde had still flailed at anything that moved, and Heather and Dave had clamped on to her, pinning her arms and legs to keep her from charging again.

If not for the way Caressa had wrenched herself out of her teammates' grasp to take a final swing at one of the guys from Penn when he'd waggled her tongue at her, they would have gotten off with a stern warning. Martin barely managed to tackle her in time to keep the whole thing from starting all over again, this time with the cops standing right there. .

Once they'd been crammed into the back of a van for transport to the station, even Solórzano, Kelly, and Angela who'd stayed on the sidelines, Martin tried to pry out some sort of explanation about how things had started, but Zhelen had been too far away to talk to, bustled in at the front of the van while Martin had been crowded into the last row of seats between Heather and Dave. Caressa was no help. She'd started whimpering in the transport, and by the time they'd shuffled inside the surprisingly modern holding cell, her half-hearted sniffling turned into full-blown tears. She'd fallen onto the bench Kelly led her to with a heavy thud and buried her face against the other girl's shoulder, a sodden, miserable presence in the too-small space. Martin kept a careful distance from her once it became clear she wasn't going to tell him anything, but her voice carried, and she'd been damned difficult to block out.

"I'm sorry," Caressa hiccupped, her words muffled by Kelly's heavy sweater. "It's all my fault."

Martin spun in the girls' direction. Angela was murmuring something that sounded soft and soothing, but the blonde girl's voice choked off, and she only sobbed harder.

Stalking over to where the girls sat, Martin stared, waiting for a break in the deluge of tears. When it didn't happen, he finally blurted, "What does she mean, it's all her fault?"

Kelly glared at him over the top of Caressa's head, but any weight that look might have carried was lost, engulfed as she was in the other girl's tangle of bright curls. He was about to ask again when Angela caught his eye and shook her head. "Later," she mouthed, soundlessly. The look she gave him had a sharpness to it that warned against further comment and yet still managed to be gentle and kind. It was that, more than anything, that kept him from pressing the matter.

"God," Heather sighed from the next bench where she'd bunched up her own sweater to use as a pillow. "So you got in a fight and got thrown in jail. Big deal."

Caressa pushed away from Kelly, her face screwed up like she could start bawling again at any second. "I promised my dad I wouldn't get in any more fights."

"What?" Dave asked from her position next to Heather.

"Don't encourage her," prompted Heather.

"No, we have to hear this. You promised your dad?"

Caressa inhaled, a loud, soggy sniffle. "Yeah." She looked around the cell, her cheeks reddening as every eye in the cell fixed on her. Well, every eye except for Zhelen's. "I have a younger brother. He used to get picked on a lot at school. Someone had to protect him."

"Well, I thought you were amazing," said Kelly.

"I'm sorry." Caressa scrubbed at the tear tracks trailing down her face and glanced around.

"Amazing," repeated Kelly.

"Yeah," agreed Dave. "You have nothing to be ashamed of. You rocked."

Heather yawned. "Speaking of rocks, what's up with the quarry in your purse?"

"Oh, I've been picking up rocks for Kyle."

"Your brother?"

Caressa nodded. "For his collection. He doesn't have any English rocks, yet."

"But why so many?"

"I don't know what makes a good rock."

"Oh, you're hopeless."

"And way too loud," added Dave.

The blonde took an unsteady breath and looked like she might hold it together, but then she whimpered and started bawling again. Heather groaned and pulled her sweater over her ears while Dave let her head sink back against the side wall of the cell and closed her eyes. Martin retreated back to his position near the entry to the cell.

The officer manning the desk, Sergeant Stoller, a rotund, silver-haired man with the bright, eager eyes of a kid on the first day of summer vacation, was speaking quietly on his comm. Martin crept as close to the energy field barring the cell door as he could without shocking himself, but the hum from the field and the hysterics going on behind him, drowned out anything he might have otherwise picked up. Too bad Spock wasn't there. With his preternaturally sensitive hearing, the Vulcan would at least have been able to hear everything, even if it meant being on the receiving end of yet another lecture about decorum or foresight or any one a dozen topics Spock always had ready.

At least they weren't being charged with anything. That could have been disastrous. And not just because he hadn't received his post-commissioning orders yet. It could jeopardize Solórzano's assignment to the Concord. Gunheim and Zhelen each had one more year before active duty, but something like an arrest could follow them for years. Parker could still have them disciplined, a black mark on their records they'd all carry with them into their service careers.

Martin's laugh was a harsh bark forced from his throat. He'd been so rattled when he'd thought Spock was distracted because of a girl, but right now, he'd be grateful for that to be his only problem.

Irony blew.

He sank back against the wall next to the barrier and rubbed his eyes and temples. His head was starting to pound. Probably another byproduct of the low-end detox he'd used; no extended release analgesic. When they got back to the hotel, he'd ask Parker for something stronger out of the Fleet-issue med kit she no doubt had with her.

Stoller snapped the comm terminal off and turned back to the work on his screen, but Martin rapped his knuckles against the wall.

"Excuse me. Sergeant?" he called. "Are there any updates?"

Stoller shrugged. "Sorry, that was about the ladies. Their chaperone's here. We still haven't heard from your CO yet."

"Sure." Martin nodded. "Can you try to contacting her again?"

"You lot are lucky it's a slow night. Otherwise, we wouldn't have had time to get this whole business sorted." Stoller rose and strolled over to the holding area, a tentative smile on his lips. "My nephew's a crewman on the Fornacis, and I don't want you in more trouble than you've already got. We've had to report you to your CO. You don't want to do anything else to aggravate her. Give it some time; it's only been a half hour."

"Yeah, okay," Martin finally grumbled while Stoller returned to the desk. It wasn't bad advice, especially not after the lengthy sermon about public decorum and sportsmanship and leading by example Parker'd aimed at him the day before they'd left for Oxford.

For a second, he was tempted to put his fist through the barrier. He didn't think the energy field was strong enough to do any real damage, but you never knew. Based on how things had gone so far, it probably had enough juice to land him in the hospital, and instead, he scuffed his toe along bottom edge of the boundary, watching it darken and shimmer each time his boot made contact.

"Was that about Larry?" Dave asked, her eyes blinking slowly open.

"Who?"

Heather sat up and yawned. "Dr. Suarez."

"If that's your advisor, he's here," Martin answered, shoving down the building resentment twisting in his gut at his team meeting up with the girls at all. Who knew if they'd even be in this mess if it hadn't been for them? And now they were leaving first.

"Oh, no! Larry's here?" Caressa squeaked. Her head snapped up from where she'd still been sobbing into Kelly's shoulder, and her eyes darted around the cell and the room beyond it.

Dave stood and stretched. "Don't look so panicked. It means we're getting out."

"But Larry –"

"Will be proud," Dave interrupted.

"Yeah," Heather agreed, her voice muffled as she pulled her sweater back on over her head. "Remember what he said to us before we left?"

Caressa sniffed. "That we weren't having enough fun and that we should go out and do something that could get us thrown in jail?"

"Guys, I don't think he really meant that," said Kelly as she squeezed the blonde's fingers.

"Of course he did." Heather pulled her long, red hair out from underneath her collar and walked over to Caressa. "He'll probably want a holo to commemorate it."

"No!" The blonde girl's voice rose in pitch, elongating the word into a howl.

Dave cast her eyes up to the ceiling and stalked past Heather to the clear front wall of the cell. "Nice. She'd finally stopped whining."

"Hey!" Caressa squeaked, the word echoing off the walls.

Kelly surged to her feet and glared up at Dave, the other girl so tall she had to crane her neck to meet her eyes. "That's not fair."

"But it's true."

"Stop!" Angela's voice boomed over the brewing argument. "Everybody just stop. If Larry's here, that means we're getting out of here, and until then, Caressa will stop crying. Heather and Dave will stop being mean—"

"Hey—" Heather retorted.

"— Kelly will stay out of it." She glared at each of her teammates in turn, looking every inch in complete control of the situation even though she was the only one still sitting down. "And if Dr. Suarez wants us to pose like grinning fools in front of the station, we'll do it. No complaints. It's the least we can do for dragging him out of bed in the middle of the night and getting us early enough so we can get some sleep."

The other girls immediately quieted, none of them looking at her or each other, and Heather mumbled what might have been an apology in Caressa's general direction. Martin couldn't decide whether he was jealous of how readily her team followed her instructions or by her easy confidence.

"Well, well, well. Don't you all make a fine picture?" As one, the members of the UCLA team froze, their only movement the way all of their eyes darted towards the man standing on the other side of the security barrier about to either explode with pride or twirl the end of his droopy, gray moustache. His ill-fitting, ancient tweed jacket with its patched elbows and knotted buttons of what-had-to-be-simulated leather barely hanging onto the front placket by threads, and baggy, brown trousers made the man appear more caricature than person. He might have looked so haphazardly thrown together because he'd been dragged out of bed in the middle of the night, but for all Martin knew, he could be the exact same jumble at ten in the morning after a full night's sleep.

"Although," the man who had to be Dr. Suarez continued, "not as fine as one of you all posing outside the station. Thank you for the suggestion Ms. Fisker."

"No problem," Heather replied as she dragged Dave towards the entrance to the cell where Inspector Farid, the officer who'd spoken with Zhelen after their arrival, waited for Sergeant Stoller to lower the energy field securing the holding area.

"You heard that?" Caressa squeaked. She sank slowly back to the bench.

"I heard plenty. But we can discuss this later, after we've all had some sleep. Now say goodbye to your friends, so we can all go home."

Kelly aimed a half-hearted wave to the corner where Gunheim and Solórzano had retreated not long after they'd been escorted into the cell and scampered after Heather and Dave to stand with their advisor. Only Gunheim returned the gesture because Solórzano had managed to fall asleep, propped up between the wall of the cell and the other girl. Angela pulled Caressa to her feet and gave her a gentle shove. Not hard. Just enough to get her moving, but even as she shuffled towards the cell entrance, the blonde girl looked over at Zhelen, still curled over at the back of the cell. "Just one second."

Caressa hurried over to Zhelen and whispered something. Martin couldn't hear what she said, but the Andorian glanced up and nodded, and she smiled and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek before skipping past Martin and Angela and out of the cell.

"What was that about?" Martin asked.

"I have no idea." Angela patted his arm and edged towards the door. "See you tomorrow. Maybe. If you guys ever get out of here." And she turned and was gone, along with the rest of her team.

Without the girls, silence dropped down over the holding area, broken only by the crackle of the energy barrier penning his team inside the cell. Still hard asleep, Solórzano's head drooped forward at an uncomfortable angle, and Gunheim was gently repositioning her. Zhelen hadn't moved again after Caressa's unexpected goodbye.

They were fine. So long as they got released before dawn, his team would be fine. They were all capable of performing under high stress with little or no sleep. Starfleet was the perfect training ground for that particular skill set.

He dropped down onto a bench, across from where Solórzano was sleeping on Gunheim's shoulder, and leaned his head against the wall. The cool metal surface soothed the pain and throbbing in his temple, and the rhythmic thrum of the building's mechanical systems, so similar to the ever-present drone of a starship's engines, leeched the tension out of his back and shoulders and lulled him into closing his eyes.

At some point, Martin must have drifted off because he was dreaming about a snowstorm when he started awake, his heart racing and his eyes popping open. Zhelen sat next him. The Andorian leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and glared at the floor. His antennae were tense and flattened against his head, and his hands flexed together.

"Hey." Martin rubbed his hand across his face, dragging it down over his mouth and chin to covertly check for drool. "You okay?"

Silence

Martin waited. He had time. It wasn't like they were going anywhere yet. Zhelen wouldn't have come over if he wasn't ready to talk, no matter how agitated he still seemed.

"So, what was that thing with Caressa?" That seemed easy enough.

His teammate let out a slow, careful breath and finally spoke. His voice was harsh and low, and Martin had to strain to hear him. "I told her I would send her a rock from Andor's Northern Wastes for her younger brother."

"Oh." Given how cozy Zhelen and the UCLA girl had been on the walk back to the hotel, he'd expected something else. Something more. Not that it was any of his business and not that he was surprised. The Andorian knew pretty much every female cadet on campus if the few times they'd crossed the quad together were anything to go by, and there were always whispers and rumors about Zhelen's romantic escapades, even if he denied every one of them. Maybe… Martin studied his teammate, his head bowed so low, the Starfleet symbol carved into the shorn hair at the back of his head starkly visible. A bright, blue beacon. Maybe, despite all that, he had no idea how human girls thought. "Okay."

His doubt must have shown because Zhelen sat up and looked at him. "What?"

"Nothing. It's just…girls, huh?" Martin shrugged. "Sometimes they read too much into things."

"I know many human females," Zhelen replied, his tone curt. His antennae had only relaxed marginally and were jutting out to the side of his head. "Probably more than you, and I am well familiar with how actions can be misconstrued or misinterpreted. Rest assured, this was something she and I discussed, and we share a preference for members of our own species in matters of sexuality."

"Sorry. It just seemed like she might have thought there was something more."

"I have lived among humans for nearly three years, and your species' tendency to see sexual overtones in every exchange between unrelated individuals, and sometimes related ones, confounds."

Martin opened his mouth to protest and then snapped it closed. "Is that what happened?" he asked quietly.

"We were in front of that bar with the music playing outside, and Caressa knows how to waltz."

"Ah." Zhelen was a member of the Starfleet Academy Dancesport Team. He claimed the anthropologic implications of ritualizing an aspect of courtship and mating, one that didn't have a parallel on his own planet, was intriguing, but word was, he was really good at it. Any opportunity to dance would have been irresistible. "So those guys we tangled with, they preferred the tango?"

A smile crept slowly across Zhelen's face, and he chuckled quietly. "Yes, everyone's a dance critic." He sat up and leaned his head against the wall. His antennae drooped. "We were just dancing, and they acted like we were doing something unnatural. I ignored them, but one of them said something about Caressa about 'freezing her tits off.'" He glanced over at Martin, his expression flat. "I know. Not creative or even insulting, but she jumped on him and started hitting him with her bag."

Martin sighed. "I'm sorry. Humans can be real assholes sometimes."

"Yes, as can Andorians." Zhelen nodded thoughtfully and rubbed at the base of his antennae. "The human species doesn't hold a monopoly on, I believe you call it 'dick behavior?'"

"Yeah. I guess. What about Vulcans?"

The look Zhelen leveled at him was almost too serious. "Vulcans," he said, his voice low and solemn, "are the worst."

Martin stared at him, and after a minute, the corner of the Andorian's mouth twitched. Martin smiled. "Spock would disagree."

"He would be wrong." Zhelen's lips were pressed into a firm, hard line as he struggled to keep from smiling himself.

"He'd disagree with that, too. And he'd have a lot of very logical reasons why that he'd go on about at great length."

"Thereby proving my point." Zhelen finally gave up and grinned.

"Hey." Gunheim glared at them from where she sat on the other side of the room. "Keep it down," she hissed, her eyes cutting over to the girl sleeping on her shoulder.

"Sorry," Zhelen muttered.

"Yeah." Martin tried to look contrite but suspected he only managed to look annoyed.

Something Zhelen said kept coming back to him, and he was having trouble getting past it. "Do I do that a lot? Treat you like you don't know anything about humans or living on Earth?"

"Enough that it is no longer unanticipated."

Martin's head throbbed, and his jaw felt numb and heavy. "I'm only trying to help." His voice sounded thin and weak, even in his own head. Even he didn't believe what he'd said although he was sure it was the truth.

"On my planet, you are not judged by your intentions. You are judged by the consequences of your actions, as you should be well aware from second-year ethics." Zhelen paused. "One of the concessions I have made living among humans is to accept that sometimes, it is the thought that counts. Although Spock often questions the thought as well."

Martin snorted. "Great, so Spock thinks I'm an idiot, and you think that I think you're an idiot."

"Spock doesn't think you're an idiot. He thinks your thought processes lack precision and logic," said Zhelen. "I don't think you're an idiot, either. As I said, I make allowances for your humanity."

"Yeah, I appreciate it." Zhelen's words punched him hard in the gut, and the air rushed out of him in a single, forced breath. "So, you guys talk about this?"

"On occasion. Spock finds it more troublesome than I, but you share quarters, and he has been subjected to your 'help' on a more frequent basis."

"So on top of everything else, I'm a condescending asshole."

"Now that you are aware, you can correct the behavior."

"Yeah." Correct the behavior. To hear Zhelen talk, it was the easiest thing in the world, but… He'd just been trying to help. Make things easier. But it didn't matter.

Shit.

Perception could dictate the direction of a career. What Martin thought didn't matter. He added it to the seemingly endless list of things to accomplish before commissioning. "Yeah," he repeated with more conviction than he felt. "I probably owe Spock an apology."

Not that he'd been wrong, but the Vulcan was going to rise through the ranks fast. With a starting rank of Lieutenant, he already was. He'd better set about repairing any damage he'd done there, no matter how inadvertently or well-intentioned.

Sergeant Stoller rapped his knuckles against the wall, abruptly breaking Martin's train of thought, and lowered the security barrier. "All right, Starfleet. Your carriage awaits."

Zhelen blinked in confusion. "Why would the commander send a vehicle? The hotel is only a few minutes' walk."

"I think he just means she's here."

Gunheim nudged Solórzano who was on her feet before her eyes were fully open. "What's going on?" Her voice was thick with fatigue.

Gunheim stretched and held her hand out so the other girl could pull her to her feet. "Parker's here," she said, stifling a yawn herself. "I'd make a pumpkin joke, but it's already way past midnight."

She tripped out of the cell behind officer who'd come to escort them, Solórzano in tow, and into the corridor they'd come through when they'd first been brought in. Martin looked over at Zhelen, who shrugged, and they trailed after the girls down to the property room where they'd surrendered their personal effects.

When they caught up to the others, four lock boxes had materialized on the pad of the freight transporter in the middle of the room.

"Once you have your property, go out through that door." Their escort pointed to the other side of the room. "After you're checked out, you're free to leave." The officer retreated from the direction they'd just come from and sealed the door.

"At least Parker didn't come back to the lockup to see us in all our disgrace," said Solórzano, digging through her things.

"She's probably pissed," Gunheim offered.

"Or disappointed." Martin keyed the bio-lock on the box with his name on it and pulled his overcoat out from where he'd stuffed it hours earlier. The high-tech fabric was supposed to help keep the garment clean and looking unworn. It was apparently not meant to withstand hours in a crumpled heap crammed into a box. He should have folded it more carefully. The others still looked immaculate. At least his hat was none the worse for wear. He shrugged his coat on and checked his pockets for his comm and other personal effects.

"Oh, thank god." Gunheim was the first through the door, and her voice floated back to her teammates.

"What?" Martin asked from where he was still crowded up behind Zhelen.

"It's not Parker."

"What? Who?" But if it wasn't Parker, there was only one other person who could be waiting for them. "Shit."

Martin lingered back as Solórzano and Zhelen filed out through the room's single door, his feet too heavy for him to walk without shuffling. Maybe he might owe the Vulcan an apology, but he wasn't ready to deal with him. Not that he had a choice unless he wanted to stay in jail. Steeling himself, Martin firmed his shoulders and strode out of the property room with his head held high.

Spock stood at the reception desk near the front of the vestibule looking every inch the officer they were both supposed to be in a few short months, studying a PADD with an official looking shield molded into the back. He was sharp and pressed and alert, his spine rigid and his black-billed hat tucked under his elbow and held closely against his side, ready for a full inspection at any minute. A young, female officer Martin hadn't seen before stood on the other side of the counter and gawked up at him.

He could relate. Looking at Spock, Martin felt more trampled and dirty than if he'd spent the night laying in the gutter instead of an immaculately clean and modern, if somewhat ordinary, holding cell.

Gunheim and Solórzano had hurried through the glass exterior door and out to freedom before Martin had stepped out of the property room, and they stood across the street, huddled together in a patch of streetlight. Zhelen nodded at Spock and brushed by him as he headed towards the door to the outside, too.

Martin's instincts screamed at him to leave. That's what he should do, he knew. But Parker's not being there herself was acid eating away at his better judgment to ignore Spock and join Zhelen and the rest of the team out into the chill night air. To deal with whatever punishment Parker doled out without attitude or complaint and not attempt to mend fences with the Vulcan until he'd at least gotten a couple hours of sleep. And his skull wasn't on the verge of splitting wide open or his eyes burning their way through their sockets into his brain.

Too bad his better judgment clearly wasn't in charge at the moment. He stopped next to Spock, his feet unwilling to move a step further without his roommate. The Vulcan didn't seem to notice, only kept methodically working his way through the administrative red tape probably required to secure the team's release. Typical.

Martin blew out a harsh breath. The muscles in his thighs bunched and tensed, needing to move, to walk out of the station and head to the hotel, but his feet still refused to budge, and he settled for dancing back and forth on restless toes. But that only made things worse, and the warm relief that had blossomed in the pit of his stomach once he'd cleared the cell faded and churned.

Fine.

Before he had time to think, Martin fled, but he only made it three steps, less than halfway to the door and freedom before spinning around and stalking back to Spock.

"You're not Parker," Martin blurted, too close and too loud for even a Vulcan to ignore.

Spock's gaze slid over him briefly, not long enough to make out anything in his expression other than his usual flat stare. His roommate inscribed his signature at the bottom of the PADD in his firm, neat hand. "I am uncertain whether you are merely indulging in the human preoccupation with stating the obvious or demonstrating your mastery over the differences in species and genders."

Setting the PADD down and pushing it across the desktop, Spock intoned a quiet thank you to the officer on duty. The young woman hadn't stopped staring, at least not since Martin had walked in. She nodded dumbly and reached for the PADD. Fumbled it. Nearly dropped it, but that was something else Spock didn't notice because he seated his hat on his head with his usual maddening precision and strode towards the exit. His footsteps echoed against the concrete floor.

Cramming his own hat back on, Martin scrambled after him. "You're not funny," he huffed.

"It was not my intent to be humorous."

"Good. You weren't." Martin quickened his steps.

Spock peered over at him but didn't respond and didn't slow his pace. With his long stride, Martin struggled to keep up even though he wasn't that much shorter than his teammate.

Across the street from the station door, Solórzano, apparently still half asleep, leaned heavily on Gunheim, her eyes drooping shut while the other girl swayed a little under her weight. Zhelen paced distractedly around the perimeter of the puddle of light where the girls stood. He was barely visible, a wraith in the shadows and late-night fog that engulfed him nearly up to his knees, but Martin could feel the Andorian watching him trail behind Spock even if he couldn't see him. What did Zhelen think he was going to be able to do in the short time it took to leave the station and cross the road?

His brain twisted and buzz with the pressure to do better, to be better, to be less like himself and more like his brother, more like Spock, more like anyone other than himself. That he wasn't good enough for anyone or anything, and he was the only person who didn't know it. It was an old, stale fear he'd put away when he went to college that sometimes still managed to claw its way to the surface.

Stop. Just stop. Zhelen didn't expect him to have things smoothed over with Spock yet. He didn't. He didn't even know what had happened with him earlier. And he wasn't staring at Martin, wordlessly urging him to get on with it. He was probably just tired.

They were all tired.

"Finally," Gunheim huffed, more bluster than true belligerence, the second Spock stepped up onto the curb. "Can we please leave?"

"As I have completed the necessary tasks to finalize your release –"

"Whatever." Gunheim coaxed Solórzano upright, grabbed her hand, and stomped off down the street. The other girl blinked sleepily as she towed her along. "Let's go."

"Yasuko, wait."

"The sooner we get back to the hotel, the sooner we can sleep," she grumbled, sourness pinching her features when Solórzano pulled up short and dug in her heels. "Come on."

"I kno—," said Solorzano, a yawn that stretched her mouth wide cutting her off mid-word. "But you're going the wrong direction."

"No, I'm not."

Zhelen threw his arm around Gunheim's shoulders and propelled her down the street in the opposite direction than she'd originally headed. "This way, laggard." Solórzano followed them, chuckling, and slipped her arm through Gunheim's, and she and Zhelen led her down the street.

Martin turned to Spock, but the Vulcan had walked away. Already, he was only steps behind the rest of the group, forcing Martin to trot after him, but when he drew alongside, Spock gave no sign he'd even noticed Martin's presence. They walked without speaking until the end of the block and then the next one, the tense silence broken only by the shuffle of heavy footsteps and their teammates' hoarse whispers.

With every step, the quiet around them thickened and settled until it pressed around him, weighty and oppressive. Their earlier disagreement was an anomaly consuming the air around them until Martin struggled to draw a full breath. It might not be the ideal time, but maybe he should try to iron things out with Spock. Restoring any communication would only be harder the longer he left it, the way Martin was certain he'd be tempted to.

"Man, good thing she's not a navigator, huh?" asked Martin, gesturing at Gunheim's back.

Spock didn't so much as twitch, and his gaze remained fixed on some spot down the street Martin couldn't identify. Unwavering. Little more than a statue. Fine. He should have known he wouldn't make this easy on him.

"So, you never answered my question about Parker." There. It was a reasonable statement. Of course he'd want to know why Parker wasn't there. Besides, the more prepared he could be for whatever they were in for when they got back to the hotel, the better.

"You don't need to tell me," supplied Martin after a too-long stretch of silence. He might have to have the entire conversation by himself. Hell, it would probably be simpler than drawing Spock out. Martin didn't need the Vulcan's active participation to say what he needed. "I'm sure she's pretty heated. I mean, why else would she send you?"

He tried not to feel a little smug when Spock replied, his mouth compressed into a firm, tight line. The feeling faded as soon as the Vulcan spoke.

"As you made no previous inquiry with regards to the Commander, it is impossible to provide a response."

"You know what I mean," Martin spit out, but Spock had gone back to ignoring him. "I guess your being here means things with Uhura didn't work out."

If nothing else, the look Spock shot at him was definitely a reaction. The Vulcan's brows pulled together but the rest of his features remained still and didn't communicate any interpretable emotion. Not that Martin spent any time puzzling it out.

"That's rough. You were pretty into her, and she gave you every sign –"

"That is none of your concern."

"I wasn't going to ask what happened. I just…" His voice trailed off. Jesus, Spock was acting like a child.

"Look, I know you're pissed about what I said to Uhura earlier, and I shouldn't –"

"You are incorrect."

Without stopping, Martin closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Counted to three. It didn't help.

He was the one who'd had to deal with Spencer. He was the one who'd ended up in a street fight and, even if he hadn't known it at the time, defending Zhelen. Where was Spock then? Martin was the one who spent most of the night in jail. Not Spock. Spock left with the girl he had a thing for even if Martin doubted things had gone anywhere. And Martin was trying to apologize. There was a sudden tightening in his chest, and his heart thundered.

"Oh, that's right. It's impossible to piss you off because Vulcans don't have emotions."

Spock came to an abrupt halt. "I merely point out your logic in this matter is flawed."

After scampering behind the Vulcan ever since leaving the police station, Martin couldn't slow his pace quickly enough to keep tracking him. He skidded to a stop half a dozen steps beyond where Spock stood, turned, and pounded back to him.

"Flawed—"

"Your conclusion I took offense at your unfounded accusations against Ny—" Spock broke off and took a quick breath before continuing, "—Ms. Uhura is predicated on the assumption I value your opinion. I assure you that is not the case."

"And here I thought Vulcans couldn't lie."

"We cannot."

"Oh please. Steam was practically coming out of your ears. "

"Are you—?"

"Gentlemen." Zhelen's voice floated over Martin's shoulder, breaking into the conversation. "As entertaining as watching the two of you rip into one another would be, maybe you should save this…discussion until we have returned to the hotel? I, for one, would prefer to avoid any further encounters with local law enforcement."

Spock's attention snapped towards Zhelen, and Martin flinched at the ice cold hand clapping him on the back. He hadn't noticed the Andorian approach, he'd been so intent on sniping at Spock. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, and an embarrassed flush crept up his neck and heated his face. What happened? He was supposed to be apologizing to the Vulcan. Instead, he'd been trying to find a way to make Spock responsible for his crappy night.

He stepped back and swallowed the bitter ire coating his tongue. "Yeah, sorry." He glanced up at Spock. "We can pick this up later."

"There is nothing further to discuss." Spock's tone was ice, and the look he leveled at Martin sent a cold shiver racing along his spine. The Vulcan stepped stiffly around him and strode towards where Solórzano and Gunheim stood a few feet further down the street, staring. Solórzano gaped, more awake and alert than she'd been in hours. Gunheim just looked done, her irritation written in clear block letters across her face. When Spock passed them, she turned and followed, dragging Solórzano along with her.

Martin waited without moving until they reached next corner before he snuck a glanced at Zhelen. The Andorian watched him, preternaturally unconcerned in a way that would have rivaled Spock on any normal day. "We discussed this. I'd thought you had a breakthrough."

"I was trying to apologize."

"Clearly, you need to work on your technique."

"Maybe." Martin shrugged, hoping the movement would break down some of the tension running across his back. "I'll try again after I've gotten some sleep."

Zhelen's hand tightened on his shoulder for a second before giving him a not-quite-friendly shove towards the hotel. "Maybe wait until after the next round. Spock is always in a better mood following intellectual exertion."

Martin nodded and started towards the hotel again. "Good call."

A/N: Let me say up front, I know this isn't how jail works in Britain. I can't even vouch for it being this way in the states. I mean, I'm pretty sure it's not, but I've never been arrested, so I have no first-hand experience.

Thank you all for your patience and thank you to everyone who kept reading and commenting during my unexpected hiatus. I wish there'd been some way to let everyone know I hadn't abandoned this. In fact, except for a brief period in January when I just had to get Christmas out of my system, I worked on this multiple times a week for nearly the entire time. Between the holidays and work and life getting out of hand, sometimes I was working on this one sentence at a time. But things have finally calmed down, and I'm hopefully back to somewhat regular updating. I can't promise there won't be a gap here and there, but I'm super-energized and motivated to finally get this finished.

What I can promise is the next chapter is centered on Nyota. And the chapter after that, and the chapter after that, and the one after that. I'm very excited to see what everybody thinks.

So, Martin. I've said all along I'm not going to put Martin on some kind of redemption arc, and I hope that's playing out. I mean, he gets that he really went wrong, but even if he gets a glimmer of how he messed up, he's essentially the same person as when he started, and he reverts to form under stress. Despite the fact that he wants to be seen as a good guy (not be a good guy, be seen as one), he doesn't get that just going through the motions isn't good enough. I may come back to him much further down the road and see if he ever pulled his head out, but I don't know. I think it's far more interesting for someone to have ambition without a way of making it come to fruition. At least if they're a character in a story.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter and that everyone is having a wonderful spring, and for those of you gearing up for finals, good luck!