Fic: Compromise (Reed/Hayes, Tucker/Reed, PG-13)
Title: Compromise
Author: Gigi Sinclair
Archive: Wherever
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Reed/Hayes, Tucker/Reed
Spoilers: Shuttlepod One, Xindi arc
Summary: Reed finds that compromise can be a virtue. Written for kylielee1000, who wanted Reed/Hayes. (Thank you!)
Notes: I haven't written "Enterprise" fic since 2004. Take that as a warning or a nostalgic comment, as you will.
Malcolm Reed hadn't gone into the Enterprise mission expecting romance.
If he was honest with himself, he hadn't gone into life expecting romance. When all the other kids were playing house, entering into imaginary marriages and caring for their imaginary children, Malcolm had always been the bachelor neighbour, the one who had all the guns and where the boys came to play when they were tired of tea parties and crying dolls.
He had expected adventure, however, both from life and from the mission. Excitement, danger, the chance to prove himself and earn the career he wanted. So when, at his good-bye party in Manchester, his friends asked: "How are you going to put up with all those Americans?"
Malcolm said: "They're going to have to put up with me."
By and large, they had. The people under his command were good, hardworking subordinates. The captain wasn't quite what Malcolm had expected, but he got his job done, and he commanded respect from the crew. Malcolm was professional enough to know that was the most important aspect of leadership.
The only thorn in Malcolm's side for the first year or so of the mission was Commander Charles Tucker. While everyone else, even Captain Archer, seemed content to give Malcolm the space to let him do his job his way, Tucker seemed to be forever hanging around in the armoury, screwdriver in hand, flirting with Malcolm's people and taking up Malcolm's time.
"Is there some reason you feel compelled to always be here?" Malcolm finally snapped, after a particularly long afternoon of listening to Tucker tell random, slightly inappropriate stories about his college exploits with a waterpolo ball, a female fighter pilot and a large bowl of strawberry jelly.
Tucker gave him a slow, lazy smile, and Malcolm knew he'd just given him exactly what he wanted: attention. "Why, Lieutenant Reed, maybe I simply like the company." He winked broadly, but he left a few minutes later, and Malcolm didn't see him again for nearly a week.
***
It was typical of his very existence, Malcolm thought melancholically, that if he was going to suffocate to death in a disabled shuttlecraft, it would have to be with the most irritating person in the galaxy by his side. It wasn't enough that life had to kick him in the balls every now and then; it also had to deliver a simultaneous punch to the kidneys, just for laughs.
Trip Tucker certainly wasn't delivering many laughs as they huddled together in the aimlessly floating shuttlepod, but then Malcolm wasn't exactly in a jovial mood, either. The bottle of Kentucky bourbon didn't help, but by the time Trip pulled it out of its hiding place, Malcolm was past caring about protocol or rules. He didn't even pause to file a mental report about the captain keeping illicit alcohol onboard Starfleet shuttlecraft. He held his hand out for the bottle and took a long swig, not bothering to wipe away Trip's germs first.
The situation went downhill from there. Malcolm couldn't remember many details, but later, as he lay in sickbay, he recalled in vivid, embarrassing colour that onboard the shuttlecraft he'd suddenly been seized by the uncontrollable urge to wax poetic about T'Pol's backside. He had always been a bum man, and T'Pol's was especially nice, reminding him of a boy he'd known at university who had eventually dropped out of his courses and become, Malcolm thought, some kind of nude bartender in a club in London.
Malcolm remembered telling Trip most of this and Trip had listened, even going so far as to thoughtfully compare and contrast the personal and financial benefits of nude bartending versus exploring space.
Malcolm also remembered Trip deciding, suddenly and stupidly, that he would sacrifice himself to save Malcolm. There was no way Malcolm could allow that. He was the security officer; self-sacrifice was practically in his job description. If anyone was going to die, it was going to be Malcolm, and there was no arguing that point.
Trip, of course, argued it. They fought for a while, until Malcolm fell back on the only thing that had always been there for him: weaponry. When he drew the phase pistol, Trip had no choice but to concede defeat. Which he did, but not in any way Malcolm had ever practiced in simulations.
Instead of giving up like a gentleman, Trip leaned forward and kissed him. Malcolm was so surprised that, for a moment, he did nothing except let Trip slide his tongue along his tightly closed lips and feel the rasp of Trip's beard against his own. When Trip pulled back, his eyes were glazed, and he said: "I don't want to die alone, Malcolm."
Suddenly, Malcolm didn't want that either. He, the guy who'd always been happy as the celibate neighbour, fondling his guns instead of fondling somebody else, suddenly and desperately didn't want to go out alone. Warily, in case this was a trap, Malcolm lay down the phase pistol within easy reach, and put his hands on Trip's shoulders. Trip pulled him close, one hand on Malcolm's hip and the other in his greasy, unwashed hair.
He didn't kiss back just because it was Trip, Malcolm told himself later. It could have been anyone. It could have been Captain Archer with him, or Hoshi, or T'Pol, or the nude bartender from uni. In that situation, he would have done the same with anyone and, when T'Pol's voice came over the comm. system before they'd even unfastened their trousers, Malcolm was completely, totally and one-hundred-percent relieved that they weren't going to die after all. There was absolutely no sense of disappointment whatsoever, which was why Malcolm wasn't the least bit dissatisfied when Trip came to him a few days later, when they were safely back onboard Enterprise, and said:
"Look, Mal, buddy, strange shit happens when you're near death. I mean, people do all kinds of crazy stuff they wouldn't normally do, right? It doesn't have to mean anything."
"Right," Malcolm agreed. Completely, totally and one-hundred-percent.
Trip grinned. "Great. Thanks. I knew you were an OK guy."
And later, when Malcolm noticed Trip staring at T'Pol's backside with more interest than he'd ever shown before, Malcolm was nothing but happy for both of them.
After all, he thought, he was the neighbour with the guns, and that was how he liked it.
***
If Trip Tucker had been a thorn in Malcolm's side, then Major Hayes was a gigantic gangrenous splinter lodged in the base of Malcolm's brain. While Trip had at least pretended to mind his own business most of the time, Major Hayes had no qualms about butting in about anything and everything Malcolm did.
"My people don't do it that way," he'd say, after Malcolm explained the most basic weapon cleaning technique or storage procedure. Or, if he was feeling particularly magnanimous, Hayes would say something like: "Why don't you let us show you what we do instead? I think you'll find it's a much more efficient system."
His people were just as bad. With their ridiculous camouflage uniforms--what, Malcolm thought, were they camouflaging themselves against in space?--they crowded Malcolm's team out of their stations, took up Malcolm's armoury space with their weapons, even ate the last of the pineapple desserts in the mess hall.
Captain Archer, of course, didn't want to hear about it. "I know it's hard to adjust, Malcolm," he'd say, giving a vague sympathetic grimace when Malcolm came to his ready room to complain, yet again, about Hayes and his boorish, intrusive and possibly criminally incompetent team. "But we're all on the same side. They're here for a reason."
"Because you don't think I can handle the Xindi?" Malcolm suggested heatedly, belatedly adding a cursory: "Sir?" to the end of it.
"I believe in you implicitly," Archer replied, but his eyes were already drifting back to his computer screen, and Malcolm knew he was losing his attention. "But the Xindi are a serious threat. We need all the help we can get."
Hayes and his people weren't helpful, though, least of all in the middle of a firefight with the Xindi when Hayes suddenly decided Malcolm didn't know what he was doing.
"We need to drop the shields to seventy percent," Hayes barked, as the ship rocked with yet another Xindi blast.
"Are you insane?" Malcolm looked over from his station, wiping sweat from his forehead. The station beside his, formerly occupied by Ensign Miranda Sabel, had burst into flames and Ensign Sabel herself was lying, charred and moaning, on the floor beside him.
"We need the power to boost the phase cannons," Hayes yelled back. "It's the only way out of this." One of the MACOs moved to follow his orders, and Malcolm shouted:
"Follow that order and I'll fucking kill you myself. We're already getting it from both sides; if we drop the shields, we're doomed."
"If we keep the shields up, we're just putting off the inevitable. We need to blast them out of the water and be done with this." Another hit. This one knocked Malcolm off his feet, and by the time he'd stood up again, the sirens were screeching and the computer screens were blinking insistently.
"What's going on down there, Lieutenant?" Captain Archer's voice came over the comm. link.
"Cut the shields to seventy percent, sir," Hayes replied.
"Don't," Malcolm yelled back.
"Well, which one is it?" Archer demanded, stress evident in his voice. They certainly, Malcolm thought, couldn't leave it up to the captain to make the decision.
That was, as it turned out, Malcolm's last coherent thought. The ship was hit again, and the bulkhead above Malcolm's console suddenly cracked and collapsed towards him.
When Malcolm came to, the armoury was eerily silent. There was a stench of smoke and burning plastic and, when Malcolm eased his eyes open, he realized the only light was coming from the emergency strips along the floor and near the ceiling.
But the ship was still. Pushing a section of mangled bulkhead off his legs, Malcolm assessed his injuries. He could feel blood on his face and every inch of his body ached, but he didn't think anything was broken and he forced himself to stand unsteadily, leaning against the armoury wall.
"Lieutenant Reed?"
Malcolm turned around and saw Major Hayes, soot-smeared and ragged-looking, coming through the smoke.
All at once, Malcolm's strength returned and as soon as Hayes was close enough, he punched him in the face. "Reduce the shields? What the fuck was that?"
"It worked, didn't it?" Hayes rubbed his jaw. "We'd still be fighting them if it had been up to you."
"Look at my armoury!" Malcolm felt a stab of pain, not entirely physical, as he turned to survey the damage.
"It's not yours. If you weren't such an uptight control freak, maybe you'd see that and you could make command decisions for the good of the ship."
"You're questioning my command decisions, when you're the one that reduced our shields?"
"No," Hayes replied, his voice rising. "I'm questioning your ability to command at all, since you refused to give that order."
In the dim emergency lights, Malcolm saw red. He would, in that moment, gladly have killed Hayes with his bare hands, if Hayes hadn't grabbed him by the wrists.
Hayes had the element of surprise, so he was able to knock Malcolm's feet out from under him. Once they were on the ground, Malcolm regained his composure and rolled Hayes over, straddling his body and pinning his hands above his head.
It was hot, dark and Malcolm's body was in various amounts of pain. Hayes was breathing hard beneath him and, as Malcolm tensed his body for a renewed assault, expecting Hayes to kick, or roll, or shove him off, Hayes lurched forward and kissed him.
It was more like a bite. When Hayes pulled away, Malcolm tasted blood. It was probably, he thought, a diversionary tactic. It wasn't the technique he'd have told his men to use, but MACOs were different. Clearly.
Still, he was adaptable. Malcolm's heart was pounding, adrenaline was surging through his body, they'd come as close as they ever had to losing the ship, and Malcolm kissed Hayes again, just as hard.
"Malcolm? Major Hayes? Anyone in here?" There was a scraping of metal against metal as a hatch opened. Malcolm stood up in time to see Trip's head appear.
"Fuck me," he whistled, looking around the armoury.
Yes, Malcolm thought, straightening his uniform briskly, that would certainly have been the simpler solution.
***
Despite Malcolm's best attempts, it was three days before Phlox cleared him to leave sickbay, and then only if he promised to be on "Full bed rest for at least another day or two. And I mean it, Lieutenant. No poking around in the armoury. Let Commander Tucker's team do their job."
Malcolm went back to his quarters, but he had no intention of staying there. Just a short nap, he told himself, as he collapsed onto his bunk, then he would see how the repair operation was progressing. He woke up two hours later when someone knocked on his door.
Groggy, Malcolm sat up and immediately hit his head on the bar above his bunk. Swearing, he clutched his head and was trying not to writhe in agony when the door slid open and Major Hayes appeared.
"Are you all right?" He sounded amused, which didn't help Malcolm's mood any.
"What do you think?"
"I thought Phlox had released you from sickbay. Do you need a hand back there?"
"No." Malcolm stood up and looked Hayes in the eye. "Can I help you with something, Major?"
Hayes suddenly looked uncomfortable, but Malcolm didn't get to revel in it for long. Here it comes, he thought. The same old "people do crazy shit when they've just escaped death" speech.
After a long pause, Hayes cleared his throat. "We can't go on like this, Lieutenant."
"Like what?" Malcolm wasn't about to let him get away with it that easily.
"We may not like each other, but we need to work together. For the good of everyone."
Malcolm wanted to tell him to go to hell, but he was right. "You need to respect my command over my people."
"You need to acknowledge that my team is a valuable addition to the crew."
"You need to keep your nose out of my business."
"You need to understand that it's our business, too."
Malcolm shook his head. "You're an officious bastard."
"You're a control freak."
Hayes took a half-step forward, but Malcolm refused to retreat. He sneered instead. "Self-important jarhead."
"Stuck-up son-of-a-bitch."
This time, it was Malcolm who moved first. He would have hesitated, but the smirk on Hayes's face and the flush on his cheeks told him Malcolm wasn't the only one feeling a rush of adrenaline that for once had nothing to do with dying.
***
Afterwards, as they lay sticky and sated on Malcolm's bunk, Hayes said: "This doesn't mean we're friends."
"It doesn't," Malcolm agreed, "even mean we get along with each other."
Hayes sighed. "But I guess I could tell my men to show a little more respect for your Starfleet guys."
Malcolm was tempted to say: "Good," but he knew an olive branch when he saw one. And he wasn't about to reject it, especially not when he had just gotten laid for the first time in longer than he cared to remember.
"And I'll try to take your ideas into account. Maybe they aren't all completely stupid."
Hayes smiled and stood, pulling on that ridiculous camouflage uniform.
"See you later, Lieutenant."
"Good-bye, Major." As Hayes left, the door hissing closed behind him, Malcolm smiled.
Hayes was an infuriating bastard, but the man did, he thought, have a pretty nice arse.
Author: Gigi Sinclair
Archive: Wherever
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Reed/Hayes, Tucker/Reed
Spoilers: Shuttlepod One, Xindi arc
Summary: Reed finds that compromise can be a virtue. Written for kylielee1000, who wanted Reed/Hayes. (Thank you!)
Notes: I haven't written "Enterprise" fic since 2004. Take that as a warning or a nostalgic comment, as you will.
Malcolm Reed hadn't gone into the Enterprise mission expecting romance.
If he was honest with himself, he hadn't gone into life expecting romance. When all the other kids were playing house, entering into imaginary marriages and caring for their imaginary children, Malcolm had always been the bachelor neighbour, the one who had all the guns and where the boys came to play when they were tired of tea parties and crying dolls.
He had expected adventure, however, both from life and from the mission. Excitement, danger, the chance to prove himself and earn the career he wanted. So when, at his good-bye party in Manchester, his friends asked: "How are you going to put up with all those Americans?"
Malcolm said: "They're going to have to put up with me."
By and large, they had. The people under his command were good, hardworking subordinates. The captain wasn't quite what Malcolm had expected, but he got his job done, and he commanded respect from the crew. Malcolm was professional enough to know that was the most important aspect of leadership.
The only thorn in Malcolm's side for the first year or so of the mission was Commander Charles Tucker. While everyone else, even Captain Archer, seemed content to give Malcolm the space to let him do his job his way, Tucker seemed to be forever hanging around in the armoury, screwdriver in hand, flirting with Malcolm's people and taking up Malcolm's time.
"Is there some reason you feel compelled to always be here?" Malcolm finally snapped, after a particularly long afternoon of listening to Tucker tell random, slightly inappropriate stories about his college exploits with a waterpolo ball, a female fighter pilot and a large bowl of strawberry jelly.
Tucker gave him a slow, lazy smile, and Malcolm knew he'd just given him exactly what he wanted: attention. "Why, Lieutenant Reed, maybe I simply like the company." He winked broadly, but he left a few minutes later, and Malcolm didn't see him again for nearly a week.
***
It was typical of his very existence, Malcolm thought melancholically, that if he was going to suffocate to death in a disabled shuttlecraft, it would have to be with the most irritating person in the galaxy by his side. It wasn't enough that life had to kick him in the balls every now and then; it also had to deliver a simultaneous punch to the kidneys, just for laughs.
Trip Tucker certainly wasn't delivering many laughs as they huddled together in the aimlessly floating shuttlepod, but then Malcolm wasn't exactly in a jovial mood, either. The bottle of Kentucky bourbon didn't help, but by the time Trip pulled it out of its hiding place, Malcolm was past caring about protocol or rules. He didn't even pause to file a mental report about the captain keeping illicit alcohol onboard Starfleet shuttlecraft. He held his hand out for the bottle and took a long swig, not bothering to wipe away Trip's germs first.
The situation went downhill from there. Malcolm couldn't remember many details, but later, as he lay in sickbay, he recalled in vivid, embarrassing colour that onboard the shuttlecraft he'd suddenly been seized by the uncontrollable urge to wax poetic about T'Pol's backside. He had always been a bum man, and T'Pol's was especially nice, reminding him of a boy he'd known at university who had eventually dropped out of his courses and become, Malcolm thought, some kind of nude bartender in a club in London.
Malcolm remembered telling Trip most of this and Trip had listened, even going so far as to thoughtfully compare and contrast the personal and financial benefits of nude bartending versus exploring space.
Malcolm also remembered Trip deciding, suddenly and stupidly, that he would sacrifice himself to save Malcolm. There was no way Malcolm could allow that. He was the security officer; self-sacrifice was practically in his job description. If anyone was going to die, it was going to be Malcolm, and there was no arguing that point.
Trip, of course, argued it. They fought for a while, until Malcolm fell back on the only thing that had always been there for him: weaponry. When he drew the phase pistol, Trip had no choice but to concede defeat. Which he did, but not in any way Malcolm had ever practiced in simulations.
Instead of giving up like a gentleman, Trip leaned forward and kissed him. Malcolm was so surprised that, for a moment, he did nothing except let Trip slide his tongue along his tightly closed lips and feel the rasp of Trip's beard against his own. When Trip pulled back, his eyes were glazed, and he said: "I don't want to die alone, Malcolm."
Suddenly, Malcolm didn't want that either. He, the guy who'd always been happy as the celibate neighbour, fondling his guns instead of fondling somebody else, suddenly and desperately didn't want to go out alone. Warily, in case this was a trap, Malcolm lay down the phase pistol within easy reach, and put his hands on Trip's shoulders. Trip pulled him close, one hand on Malcolm's hip and the other in his greasy, unwashed hair.
He didn't kiss back just because it was Trip, Malcolm told himself later. It could have been anyone. It could have been Captain Archer with him, or Hoshi, or T'Pol, or the nude bartender from uni. In that situation, he would have done the same with anyone and, when T'Pol's voice came over the comm. system before they'd even unfastened their trousers, Malcolm was completely, totally and one-hundred-percent relieved that they weren't going to die after all. There was absolutely no sense of disappointment whatsoever, which was why Malcolm wasn't the least bit dissatisfied when Trip came to him a few days later, when they were safely back onboard Enterprise, and said:
"Look, Mal, buddy, strange shit happens when you're near death. I mean, people do all kinds of crazy stuff they wouldn't normally do, right? It doesn't have to mean anything."
"Right," Malcolm agreed. Completely, totally and one-hundred-percent.
Trip grinned. "Great. Thanks. I knew you were an OK guy."
And later, when Malcolm noticed Trip staring at T'Pol's backside with more interest than he'd ever shown before, Malcolm was nothing but happy for both of them.
After all, he thought, he was the neighbour with the guns, and that was how he liked it.
***
If Trip Tucker had been a thorn in Malcolm's side, then Major Hayes was a gigantic gangrenous splinter lodged in the base of Malcolm's brain. While Trip had at least pretended to mind his own business most of the time, Major Hayes had no qualms about butting in about anything and everything Malcolm did.
"My people don't do it that way," he'd say, after Malcolm explained the most basic weapon cleaning technique or storage procedure. Or, if he was feeling particularly magnanimous, Hayes would say something like: "Why don't you let us show you what we do instead? I think you'll find it's a much more efficient system."
His people were just as bad. With their ridiculous camouflage uniforms--what, Malcolm thought, were they camouflaging themselves against in space?--they crowded Malcolm's team out of their stations, took up Malcolm's armoury space with their weapons, even ate the last of the pineapple desserts in the mess hall.
Captain Archer, of course, didn't want to hear about it. "I know it's hard to adjust, Malcolm," he'd say, giving a vague sympathetic grimace when Malcolm came to his ready room to complain, yet again, about Hayes and his boorish, intrusive and possibly criminally incompetent team. "But we're all on the same side. They're here for a reason."
"Because you don't think I can handle the Xindi?" Malcolm suggested heatedly, belatedly adding a cursory: "Sir?" to the end of it.
"I believe in you implicitly," Archer replied, but his eyes were already drifting back to his computer screen, and Malcolm knew he was losing his attention. "But the Xindi are a serious threat. We need all the help we can get."
Hayes and his people weren't helpful, though, least of all in the middle of a firefight with the Xindi when Hayes suddenly decided Malcolm didn't know what he was doing.
"We need to drop the shields to seventy percent," Hayes barked, as the ship rocked with yet another Xindi blast.
"Are you insane?" Malcolm looked over from his station, wiping sweat from his forehead. The station beside his, formerly occupied by Ensign Miranda Sabel, had burst into flames and Ensign Sabel herself was lying, charred and moaning, on the floor beside him.
"We need the power to boost the phase cannons," Hayes yelled back. "It's the only way out of this." One of the MACOs moved to follow his orders, and Malcolm shouted:
"Follow that order and I'll fucking kill you myself. We're already getting it from both sides; if we drop the shields, we're doomed."
"If we keep the shields up, we're just putting off the inevitable. We need to blast them out of the water and be done with this." Another hit. This one knocked Malcolm off his feet, and by the time he'd stood up again, the sirens were screeching and the computer screens were blinking insistently.
"What's going on down there, Lieutenant?" Captain Archer's voice came over the comm. link.
"Cut the shields to seventy percent, sir," Hayes replied.
"Don't," Malcolm yelled back.
"Well, which one is it?" Archer demanded, stress evident in his voice. They certainly, Malcolm thought, couldn't leave it up to the captain to make the decision.
That was, as it turned out, Malcolm's last coherent thought. The ship was hit again, and the bulkhead above Malcolm's console suddenly cracked and collapsed towards him.
When Malcolm came to, the armoury was eerily silent. There was a stench of smoke and burning plastic and, when Malcolm eased his eyes open, he realized the only light was coming from the emergency strips along the floor and near the ceiling.
But the ship was still. Pushing a section of mangled bulkhead off his legs, Malcolm assessed his injuries. He could feel blood on his face and every inch of his body ached, but he didn't think anything was broken and he forced himself to stand unsteadily, leaning against the armoury wall.
"Lieutenant Reed?"
Malcolm turned around and saw Major Hayes, soot-smeared and ragged-looking, coming through the smoke.
All at once, Malcolm's strength returned and as soon as Hayes was close enough, he punched him in the face. "Reduce the shields? What the fuck was that?"
"It worked, didn't it?" Hayes rubbed his jaw. "We'd still be fighting them if it had been up to you."
"Look at my armoury!" Malcolm felt a stab of pain, not entirely physical, as he turned to survey the damage.
"It's not yours. If you weren't such an uptight control freak, maybe you'd see that and you could make command decisions for the good of the ship."
"You're questioning my command decisions, when you're the one that reduced our shields?"
"No," Hayes replied, his voice rising. "I'm questioning your ability to command at all, since you refused to give that order."
In the dim emergency lights, Malcolm saw red. He would, in that moment, gladly have killed Hayes with his bare hands, if Hayes hadn't grabbed him by the wrists.
Hayes had the element of surprise, so he was able to knock Malcolm's feet out from under him. Once they were on the ground, Malcolm regained his composure and rolled Hayes over, straddling his body and pinning his hands above his head.
It was hot, dark and Malcolm's body was in various amounts of pain. Hayes was breathing hard beneath him and, as Malcolm tensed his body for a renewed assault, expecting Hayes to kick, or roll, or shove him off, Hayes lurched forward and kissed him.
It was more like a bite. When Hayes pulled away, Malcolm tasted blood. It was probably, he thought, a diversionary tactic. It wasn't the technique he'd have told his men to use, but MACOs were different. Clearly.
Still, he was adaptable. Malcolm's heart was pounding, adrenaline was surging through his body, they'd come as close as they ever had to losing the ship, and Malcolm kissed Hayes again, just as hard.
"Malcolm? Major Hayes? Anyone in here?" There was a scraping of metal against metal as a hatch opened. Malcolm stood up in time to see Trip's head appear.
"Fuck me," he whistled, looking around the armoury.
Yes, Malcolm thought, straightening his uniform briskly, that would certainly have been the simpler solution.
***
Despite Malcolm's best attempts, it was three days before Phlox cleared him to leave sickbay, and then only if he promised to be on "Full bed rest for at least another day or two. And I mean it, Lieutenant. No poking around in the armoury. Let Commander Tucker's team do their job."
Malcolm went back to his quarters, but he had no intention of staying there. Just a short nap, he told himself, as he collapsed onto his bunk, then he would see how the repair operation was progressing. He woke up two hours later when someone knocked on his door.
Groggy, Malcolm sat up and immediately hit his head on the bar above his bunk. Swearing, he clutched his head and was trying not to writhe in agony when the door slid open and Major Hayes appeared.
"Are you all right?" He sounded amused, which didn't help Malcolm's mood any.
"What do you think?"
"I thought Phlox had released you from sickbay. Do you need a hand back there?"
"No." Malcolm stood up and looked Hayes in the eye. "Can I help you with something, Major?"
Hayes suddenly looked uncomfortable, but Malcolm didn't get to revel in it for long. Here it comes, he thought. The same old "people do crazy shit when they've just escaped death" speech.
After a long pause, Hayes cleared his throat. "We can't go on like this, Lieutenant."
"Like what?" Malcolm wasn't about to let him get away with it that easily.
"We may not like each other, but we need to work together. For the good of everyone."
Malcolm wanted to tell him to go to hell, but he was right. "You need to respect my command over my people."
"You need to acknowledge that my team is a valuable addition to the crew."
"You need to keep your nose out of my business."
"You need to understand that it's our business, too."
Malcolm shook his head. "You're an officious bastard."
"You're a control freak."
Hayes took a half-step forward, but Malcolm refused to retreat. He sneered instead. "Self-important jarhead."
"Stuck-up son-of-a-bitch."
This time, it was Malcolm who moved first. He would have hesitated, but the smirk on Hayes's face and the flush on his cheeks told him Malcolm wasn't the only one feeling a rush of adrenaline that for once had nothing to do with dying.
***
Afterwards, as they lay sticky and sated on Malcolm's bunk, Hayes said: "This doesn't mean we're friends."
"It doesn't," Malcolm agreed, "even mean we get along with each other."
Hayes sighed. "But I guess I could tell my men to show a little more respect for your Starfleet guys."
Malcolm was tempted to say: "Good," but he knew an olive branch when he saw one. And he wasn't about to reject it, especially not when he had just gotten laid for the first time in longer than he cared to remember.
"And I'll try to take your ideas into account. Maybe they aren't all completely stupid."
Hayes smiled and stood, pulling on that ridiculous camouflage uniform.
"See you later, Lieutenant."
"Good-bye, Major." As Hayes left, the door hissing closed behind him, Malcolm smiled.
Hayes was an infuriating bastard, but the man did, he thought, have a pretty nice arse.