Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I just get the feeling whenever Lieutenant Reed looks at one of us, he sees the enemy.”

- Corporal Cole, Harbinger

“When we first came aboard Enterprise, we definitely felt like outsiders.”

- Major Hayes, Countdown

Archer to Reed: “Doctor Phlox says you have a detached retina.” To Hayes - “A bruised left kidney.”

- Harbinger

Hayes to Reed: “I have no problem taking orders from you. After lunar survival training I can handle just about anything.”

- Harbinger

Corporal Chang

We were waiting in his quarters when he returned. I stood on his left side, the blind side. We’d seen the medical report - “detached left retina”; means a reduced field of vision. Means he wouldn’t see me.

He came through the door, head down, unsuspecting. I waited ‘til the door closed and then I threw the hood over his head. He bucked forward, trying to pull the cloth away but Ramirez and Goser surged out from the bathroom, took hold of an arm each, twisted it upwards and backwards and forced him down. His knees hit the deck and they held him there in the classic MACO-approved stress position; it’s clean, hurts like hell, and it doesn’t leave a mark.

He didn’t say anything, and neither did we. He, because he wasn’t able to - it’s hard enough to breathe with the diaphragm stretched taut like that, let alone talk. And us - because we didn’t need to. The position was saying everything for us. Humiliation. Subjugation. You’re being held, firmly and completely, and you have to lean into it unless you want a couple of dislocated shoulders for your trouble. You’re dependent on the people holding you, even though they’re the ones causing you the pain. It messes with your head.

Except Reed wasn’t accepting it, he was struggling, trying to wrench his arms free. So I put my boot between his shoulder blades, pushed him down so that his head was nearly touching the deck, his arms pulled tight behind him in a V position. If he moaned, I didn’t hear it.

We kept him there for several minutes. He was trembling from the strain, flexing his hands as if he was reaching for something. He was silent, far as I could tell. So were we.

Goser was watching me, waiting for the signal to release him but I shook my head. There was something else I wanted to do. I took my boot off Reed’s back and walked in front of him. I gestured for the others to pull him back to expose his torso.

That medical report I mentioned before? Bruised left kidney?

I punched him on his left side. He tried to double over but he couldn’t. I waited a moment, to make him think it was over. Then I hit him again.

Eventually I gave the nod and they dropped him. He couldn’t get his hands round in time, and he went down hard on the deck.

I’m sure he got our message though.

This is what you get when you touch a MACO.

The ship’s environmental systems recorded excess water usage on B deck that evening, as if someone had kept their shower running.

Chapter Text

The next day: Major Hayes 

I was sitting out the way in the corner of the mess hall, coffee to hand, reviewing various progress reports, when Reed and Tucker walked in. Reed’s face was looking plenty colourful now that the bruises were a couple days old. It bothered me professionally that they were mostly on the left side of his face. My bruises were evenly spread. I wondered if he was ambidextrous.

(Maybe it should have bothered me more that he looked so much worse than I did. But I didn’t want to think about the implications of that. So I didn’t).

People were smirking as they walked past. I heard Tucker saying, “You guys really did a number on each other,” shaking his head in amusement.

But Reed…. the more I watched him, the more I realised that something was off. After our fight, we were both sore and aching, but he seemed exhilarated. I felt the same, if I’m honest.

But now? I noticed the way he was subtly scanning the room; I recognised it because it’s how I act when I’m on recon. And he was holding himself stiffly, like he was walking on broken glass, curled over a little, guarding his mid-section.

Mentally I reviewed our fight, all the places I’d hit him. Jaw. Chest. Face. Kicked him in the head. (Not too proud of that last one, in hindsight).

But I hadn’t punched him in the stomach. So what the hell was he walking like that for?

They sat down for breakfast and he eased himself gingerly into his seat. Now I knew what I was looking for, it was obvious - he was in pain, more so than our fight had warranted.

Tucker was oblivious, talking about something, gesturing, then he got called away. But Reed stayed. I would have laid good money it was because he hurt too much to move.

His eyes were closed when I sat down in front of him, and he was favouring his left side.

“I didn’t hit you there.”

He started, opened his eyes, looked at me warily. “I beg your pardon?”

I gestured. “Your side.”

He took his hand away and straightened. “I landed awkwardly.”

I levelled a stare at him. “Uh huh.”

Up close he looked awful. The bruises, the swelling. I’d drawn blood in three places.

I’d been angry when I’d hit him, when I kicked him. I’d wanted to hurt him and I’d lost control. Just like my dad did when we were kids.

And here’s the thing - I was pretty sure Reed had been holding back. Sure, I’d laid him flat in the gym, but that was because he was still adhering to his precious Starfleet sparring rules. Out in the corridor, with that Klingon move he used on me - all bets were off. I was done, but he was just getting started.

Uneasy with my scrutiny he reached for his glass of OJ, a classic distraction technique. But the cuff of his sleeve hung loose and I saw the bruising. Without thinking I reached out and seized his arm, drew back the cuff to reveal five dark smudges fanning out to encircle the wrist.

I remembered how I’d taken his wrist, bent it backwards and thrown him to the floor, how I’d leaned on his chest, applying pressure on the joint to restrain him.

Like I said, I’m not proud of it.

But a wrist lock wouldn’t leave those kind of marks. These marks were lower, on his forearm, like someone had been gripping him tight. I’m betting he had similar marks on his other arm.

Like he’d been held down, maybe.

And a sick, sinking realisation started to spread.

“Who did this?”

He snatched his hand back and hid both hands under the table.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Lieutenant.”

As soon as I said it I regretted it. He narrowed his eyes at me. “Don’t tell me what to do, Major. I outrank you, remember?” He got to his feet with a wince and stalked out, leaving his tray behind. I glared after him in frustration, aware of the hushed silence around us.

But all the same, I knew something had happened to him after our fight.

See, MACOs are trained in control techniques. Pain compliance. Very useful for subduing a hostile, or for hazing rituals.

And there’s one hold in particular. You take the wrists and force them up, so the chest bows forward and the arms spread out like wings. We call it the albatross.

I got to my feet to go after him, even as my mind was whirring.

They’d done that to him. That’s what my instincts were telling me. Two, maybe three of them, had put him in the hold, and from the looks of him, I’m betting he fought back. It goes worse when you do.

I exited the mess hall, glanced quickly up the corridors to see where he’d gone. I took the one leading to the armoury.

Albatross… The image troubled me, because there’s something else about albatrosses. In the past, sailors would catch one and paint a target on it, just for fun. Then they’d watch as the other birds turned on it and attacked it, tore it to shreds.

That’s what I’d done with Reed. I’d singled him out in that target practice session, forced him to shoot with a weapon he was wholly unfamiliar with, and humiliated him in the process. I rationalised it to myself at the time - as I’d told Archer, MACOs have access to all the latest gear and technology. Why not get the Fleeters using it too? Share the knowledge, level up together.

I wanted Reed to take us seriously. And if embarrassing him in front of both the MACOs and his own crew was collateral damage -  well, I could live with that. He could do with being taken down a peg or two.

That’s what I’d thought.

But I saw now how I’d made him a target, and our fight later confirmed that he was fair game. I was sending a message to the MACOs; Reed might be Starfleet and a senior officer, but he wasn’t off-limits. I should have known they’d go after him. It’s the MACO way. We’ve been a unit ever since lunar survival training, Of course they’d want to back me up. I’d set the tone. They were just following my example.

Maybe Reed hadn’t made things easy. But I was the one who singled him out. I was the one who’d made him the albatross. I’d painted a target on him and I’d done it with his blood.

I was feeling pretty wretched by the time I caught up with him in the corridor, a place where all our significant encounters seemed to happen, this neutral space, a no man’s land, neither his territory nor mine.

“Lieutenant,” I said, blocking his path.

“What?” he snarled. The way he looked at me, he reminded me of a wounded animal, in pain and lashing out, and I realised that I was looming over him, the way my dad did with me. I took a step back.

“Did my men - “ he flinched and I purposefully changed my language.

“The MACOs, did they…”

He glared at me, his voice cracking like a whip. “Did they what?”

I paused for a moment, trying to defuse the tension. “Did they attack you in your quarters?” I said carefully, the words feeling dirty.

He didn’t answer, just kept glaring at me, his hands clenched into fists, like he was waiting, no, needing me to do something. But I didn’t know what.

“I’ll take you to the Doctor,” I told him.

“That won’t be necessary.”

“I’ll report it to the Captain.”

“You’ll do no such thing.”

I bit back a sigh of exasperation. “At least tell me who did it.”

He hesitated, and his mouth twisted. Then he looked at me again with this extraordinary mixture of anger and shame, and somehow I knew.

My gut lurched. “You didn’t deserve this,” I told him truthfully.

Clearly that was the wrong thing to say. His eyes filled with tears and he brushed them away furiously, but it was too late, he knew I’d seen them, and that only made him madder. He stepped up close and practically spat the words into my face. “You’re not to tell Archer, or Phlox, or anyone else for that matter. Is that understood?” And without waiting for a reply, he stormed off.

I didn’t go after him. The kind of mood he was in, I didn’t trust him not to restart our fight.

And if I was being honest, I was feeling sick at what had happened. What I’d let happen.

And I wondered what the hell I was going to do about it.

So I went to the gym to work out, and I thought over the situation. Tried not to think about Reed’s expression in the corridor, shocked and betrayed, even though it was already seared into my memory.

And here’s what I did.

At the next MACO training session I gave a short briefing. I spoke generally about the need for integration, mutual respect, and I watched the effect of my words. Goser in particular was looking uneasy.

So I chose him as my sparring partner. I’ve known the kid for years and he acted guilty as hell. And from him, I had a pretty fair idea who else was in on it.

So I visited their quarters that night. The MACOs room together in twos and threes. Another bad idea in hindsight.

We had a little chat, the four of us. I made sure we were all on the same page.

Next, I invited myself to breakfast with the helmsman.  I could have gone to Tucker, but I knew he’d been dancing round with Cole and I didn’t want her compromised.

“Nice work out yesterday,” I told Mayweather as I sat down opposite him. I meant it. I was impressed with his ability and attitude.

“Thanks.”

“It felt to me like you already knew some combat moves.”

He shook his head as he bit on a slice of toast. “Not much. I’m a quick study though.”

And we talked about martial arts, and the kind of sports we were both into. He was mature beyond his years and I liked him. He would have made a good MACO.

“Do me a favour, would you?” I said as we were finishing up. “Keep an eye on Lieutenant Reed.”

Mayweather frowned. “What do you mean?”

I hesitated, choosing my words deliberately. “I know he’s had trouble adjusting to our presence on Enterprise. And - “ I swallowed down my pride - “perhaps I’ve been too concerned with establishing our position here.”

“You mean like the target practice the other day?”

He was perceptive all right.

I nodded slowly. “Like the target practice.”

“What do you want me to do?”

I didn’t want to break Reed’s confidence so I said simply, “I think he could use a friend.”

“All right.” He sounded a little bemused but he didn’t question it. “You know,” he said then, “you should join us for movie night. The MACOs.”

I looked at him evenly. “You think that would help?”

“I do.” He met my gaze steadily. “Wear your civvies. We’re one crew, right?”

Like I said, he was a smart kid.

“All right, Ensign.”

He smiled broadly. “It’s Travis.”

I felt slightly better knowing that Mayweather would be watching out for Lieutenant Reed. Reed might talk, probably wouldn’t, but at least he wouldn’t be allowed to hide away and let things fester.

Reed was in the mess hall eating his dinner and scrutinising a padd when I sat at his table. I placed my own padd down in front of him with three names on it.

He looked at me quizzically.

“It’s settled. But if you want to report them to the Captain I’ll back you up.”

He stiffened as he looked down at the padd again, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. “I don’t think that will be necessary. Do you?”

But I could hear the faint pleading in his voice.

“No,” I said firmly. “I don’t.”

He nodded, and something in his posture seemed to relax, just a little. I felt a surge of regret, and, unexpectedly, protectiveness too. 

“Well,” he began, but before he could dismiss me, I told him my idea.

“I was thinking we should lead the next training session together.”

That caught his attention. “Together?” he said sceptically.

“We could set the right tone. Going forward.”

He blinked, and I swear I could see the cogs turning as he weighed up my suggestion. Then he looked down at the list of names again and drew himself up a little straighter. “We’d have to discuss what to cover.”

I shrugged. “We can do it here, now, if you like.“

He surprised me with a faint smile. “Witnesses. Very wise.” I think that might have been the first time he’d genuinely smiled at me. It looked good on him.

And the bruises were fading, I noted. My painted targets. The swelling was going down, the broken skin healing. Give it another week, there wouldn’t be anything to see at all.

I intended to keep it that way.

finis