Chapter Text
“Damn!” The shout reverberated around the Armory. Heads snapped round to see Lieutenant Reed trying to wring some life back into his hand while a phase pistol lay in pieces on the floor.
“Are you ok, sir …”
“Stay back!” Malcolm nearly shouted at the ensign who was advancing towards him. Gingerly he reached down and deactivated the exposed power cell of the pistol. Muttering imprecations under his breath, Malcolm picked up the pieces, inspecting them carefully. Finally convinced of their safety, he looked up to find the attention of the entire Armory on himself.
“It's all right,” Malcolm said. He almost gave the order to carry on but bit down on it. “Gather round,” he snapped instead. If anyone else had done what he, stupidly, had just done, this would be the consequence. He didn't get to wriggle out of it just because he was in charge.
His entire shift crew of half a dozen around him, Malcolm took them through, in excruciating detail, how he had been adjusting the pistol to take Commander Tucker's new power cells when it had short-circuited (through his hand), owing to his failure to switch the pistol's internal safety on. “Live ordnance, out of immediate control contact,” Malcolm concluded, his voice grim. “My lack of attention to basic protocol could have caused a serious incident.”
The crew shifted uneasily as he publicly dictated the events and his own failings into the Armory log. Finally he dismissed them.
Malcolm spent the rest of the shift painstakingly adjusting all ten of the new power cells. His responsibility, he refused to allow himself to delegate given his unpardonable lapse. He was still at it as the shift ended and he dismissed his crew.
“Christ, I'm glad he didn't go to town on me like that when I dropped the torpedo.” Ensign Tani's voice, not meant to be overheard, floated down from the upper deck. Crewman Eliot's laughing response was cut off by the door. Malcolm shook his head, angrily. Tani had made a mistake! They'd picked up the casing, and no harm had been done. It wasn't ideal, but his people were good and she wouldn't make that error again. And she was his subordinate – ultimately it had been his responsibility. He slammed his hand into the bench. Didn't they understand, any of them, that it was far, far worse for him to make an error than for them? Enterprise, its crew, the ship, they were his responsibility. Out there in the Expanse a false move from Tani could cause problems, but one from him could get them all killed. He couldn't afford to make mistakes, too many people were counting on him, but that seemed to be all he did these days. If he wasn't good enough, if he kept on failing, people would die.
Malcolm stared miserably at the bulkhead. He should have noticed Shran's treachery earlier, should never have let the Andorian's tactical officer anywhere near the Armory. He had failed when D'Jamat took over the ship, it had been the Captain not him who had saved them from the Triannons. He should have paid more attention to the debris field when they had Degra. And the fight with Hayes … Malcolm swallowed hard, thankful for the empty Armory. He had twice faced Captain Archer as the result of his own stupidity. He would much have preferred to let Hayes pummel him into the ground than hear the Captain drive home just how much he had let him down.
“Lieutenant.” The speaker was nearby, and Malcolm jumped, sending a pair of the pistols skittering onto the floor.
“Damn everything!” Malcolm swore. He snatched up the pistols – thankfully still minus their power cells – and rounded on the newcomer. “What the hell do you think you're playing at, Major, sneaking around a weapons area!”
Mayor Hayes waited for Malcolm to put the pistols down, his face scrupulously unreadable. “I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean to startle you,” he said.
Malcolm glared at him. Even that sentence was an insult. Malcolm was ordnance officer, tactical officer, and head of security; he should not be capable of being startled. He had let his guard down, and Hayes had – of course! – been the one to see. “Did you have anything you wanted, or were you just here for the exercise?” he enquired.
Hayes face betrayed a flicker of – something. Malcolm knew he was getting close to the line, but right now he didn't care.
“You said the new phase pistols would be ready, I requested two for target practise.”
“Well they're not ready!” Malcolm exploded. “Do they look ready to you?” He flung away from the bench, the rage boiling over from him. “They're not ready because I'm so bloody stupid I nearly fry the first one and put my people in danger because they've not had enough of that out here already and if the bloody Xindi don't kill us first I probably will!” He was panting, words spilling from him, several lights years and still accelerating beyond giving a damn that Hayes was listening.
“Sir –” Hayes began.
Malcolm rounded on him furiously. “Isn't this what you always wanted?” he demanded. “My incompetence, oh so much less than your precious MACO battle experience. Everything would be better with you in charge, never making a mistake, never letting anyone down.” He was in Hayes' face, all his self-loathing lashing out. For a second Hayes tensed, and Malcolm deliberately goaded him, an intense longing for Hayes to raise his fists curdling his insides.
“Sir,” Hayes began again, the tension in his shoulders relaxing, “the training area is free if you want it.”
“What?” Malcolm spat.
“If you need to let things out,” Hayes said, his voice matter-of-fact. “I suggest you use the punch bag. I would offer to spar, but the Captain might have something to say.”
The mention of their previous humiliation tore the remaining shred of Malcolm's self control. “A punch bag doesn't hit back!” he yelled.
“Sir, why would you want to be hit back?”
“Because I deserve it!”
The moment hung between them. Malcolm felt the fury draining from him. “The pistols will be ready tomorrow. Just get out.” Malcolm ran his hands through his hair, disgust at himself seeping out his pores. Hayes did not move. “I said tomorrow, Major.”
“There is another way, sir.” Hayes' voice was quiet.
“What do you mean?” Malcolm asked. He met Hayes' eyes, and was startled by their clarity. The mask Hayes usually wore seemed to have vanished, and Malcolm felt the shock of contact with something real beneath that surface.
“Another way for you to get the punishment you think you deserve.”
Malcolm was rooted to the spot, a feeling like a bucket of ice-cubes going down his spine. Had he heard that? Was Hayes really – Malcolm paused, a comment once accidentally overheard floating into his mind: they certainly are cut from the same cloth. He forced himself to swallow in his suddenly dry throat. Maybe Hayes did know what he was talking about. Maybe Hayes did understand what he was going through. And maybe – maybe! – he could trust Hayes to give him what he needed.
“What …” Malcolm cleared his throat. “What did you have in mind?”
The clear eyes held his. “My quarters, one hour.” Hayes gave a slight shrug. “If you'd like.”
Malcolm felt he couldn't breathe. He dismissed Hayes with a brief jerk of his head. He didn't want to think about what had just happened. Two pistols remained on the bench; they would take him the best part of an hour to finish, and then he would be done. And then –?