Untitled

He knows the basics; knows what everyone knows, the attack on Earth, the unimaginable number of casualties, but he also knows about the crew. The security team. Knows that Enterprise lost a man just days before the news came through. That they’ve been reassigned without rest, without downtime, to go after a threat that still doesn’t have a name. He knows, too, that they’ll be joining a crew that’s been through hell and come out the other side bloodied, grieving, and probably unwilling to open themselves up again. 

He’s read the mission brief. Read the personnel files. Read Reed’s file twice.

And still: nothing quite prepares him for that first meeting. 

The armoury – once he eventually finds it – has weaponry and other things strewn across the floor in something that might be organised. He counts twenty of the twenty one personnel. 

There’s a blonde woman at the center, her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail that bounces every time she moves her head, and the others seem to orbit her. 

“I just don’t think we’ve got this much storage space.” She’s saying, stressed, when Hayes cautiously steps in through the door. “I don’t…”

She tenses, spins, and the rest of them follow her gaze until Hayes is pinned under their collective stare. He doesn’t flinch. 

“I’m looking for Lieutenant Reed.”

The blonde woman – she’s more of a girl, really, now that he’s looking at her face, impossibly young – frowns. “Who are you?”

“Hayes. Major Hayes. Of the MACOs.”

The confusion on her face doesn’t clear, and a few of the others step in to flank her. 

“What do you want with Reed?” one of the men asks. There's something possessive in his tone. Protective.

Hayes doesn’t allow his thoughts to show themselves on his face, but they shoot through his mind like bullets. The security team are not expecting him, as he had been anticipating they would. 

“To introduce myself, since we will be working together.”

There’s murmuring from the back of the group. More confusion. 

“Working together.”

Clearly, despite her age, the blonde woman is in charge. 

“Yes. We’ve been assigned to the Enterprise to assist with security on this mission.”

“We don’t need assistance.” Someone objects. 

The woman waves her hand in their direction and they fall silent again. “We weren’t told anything about that.”

Hayes doesn’t have a response. “Can I speak with Reed?”

The blonde woman, still tense, still frowning, glances to someone at her side. A redhead, taller, arms crossed, silent but watchful.

“Zhao, find the Lieutenant,” she says.

Zhao nods once and disappears through a side door, moving fast.

Hayes doesn’t move. He knows better than to push.

He waits.

The silence stretches. The security officers don’t disperse. They don’t return to their tasks. They stand there, openly watching him: not like a stranger, not even like a threat. Like something other. Something they don’t want.

Someone behind him coughs. Another shifts their weight. The atmosphere tightens.

Eventually, Zhao returns with, behind her, Malcolm Reed.

He looks… different from his file.

Tired, for one. Pale, drawn, like the bones underneath are sharper than they used to be. But his presence? That hasn’t changed. He walks in and the room realigns around him without a word. The others peel back, subtly, instinctively, leaving him space.

Hayes straightens. “Lieutenant.”

“Major Hayes,” Reed says. His voice is level. Carefully so. “You’ve arrived early.”

Hayes nods once, evenly. “I figured it was better to get eyes on the space before we deploy.”

Reed’s gaze flicks over him; not hostile, exactly, but assessing. Controlled. Tired in a way that feels dangerous.

“This isn’t a standard ship tour, Major.”

He can feel the gazes of the rest of the security team resting on him, and he somehow knows that however Reed decides to react will set the tone for how the rest of them treat him and his team. 

“I’m not here for the scenery,” Hayes replies. “Just wanted to introduce myself. My people have been assigned to assist with ship security for the duration of the mission.”

That gets a reaction. 

Small, but sharp. A flicker behind Reed’s eyes, a barely visible shift in his jaw. The rest of the team doesn’t move, but Hayes can feel them listening harder now. Like a wolf pack that’s caught a scent.

“I’m aware.” He replies tightly. “I’ve just come from that briefing with Captain Archer.”

Just? Hayes thinks, but remains silent, allows Reed’s gaze to settle on him, heavily. 

He still doesn’t look at the rest of them, but Hayes can see him feeling them. Calculating how much weight this will put on them. How much they’ve already taken.

“They’re staying?” One of the security team asks, eventually. 

Reed turns to them. “Yes. Archer wants backup for this mission. They’re here to provide it.”

It’s only then that he seems to notice the mess on the floor. 

“Rogers, what is this?”

The blonde woman shrugs. “It’s everything from our storage space. Apparently it’s being used for something else, I haven’t had a chance to go down and check.”

“On G-deck?” Hayes asks. 

The attention of the room turns back to him as Rogers slowly nods. 

“I think that space may be being used as the MACOs quarters now.” 

As if they weren’t already unhappy enough with his presence. Rogers’ mouth pinches together at his words. 

“I see.”

They’re annoyed. Hayes keeps his tone neutral. Diplomatic.

“Lieutenant, I would appreciate a chance to discuss the integration of the teams.”

Reed’s mouth twists slightly, but he shrugs, gestures to a door towards the back of the room that Hayes hadn’t seen. “Then by all means, please step into my office.”

Ignoring the weight of twenty gazes, Hayes does. 

It’s a small room. Just a desk and a chair, with enough space for maybe two people to stand. He falls into parade rest and waits. 

Finally, Reed speaks.

“This mission is not routine. I assume your briefing made that clear.”

“It did.”

“And did it make clear that we do not need your help?”

They stand there, silent. Hayes doesn’t blink.

“I know what it looks like,” he says eventually. “Outside unit. Fresh faces. Reinforcements. But I’m not here to replace you, Lieutenant. Or your team. I’m here because whatever’s out there is big enough that Starfleet thinks you’ll need help.”

Reed looks at him for a long moment.

Then: “Help is one thing. Taking over is another.”

“I don’t take what isn’t mine.”

Reed’s head tilts slightly. “We’ll see.”

He’s an odd man, Hayes decides. Deeply caring and yet also toeing the line of apathy.

“I’ll arrange a joint briefing,” Reed continues finally. “You’ll meet the senior staff tomorrow. After that, we’ll figure out how to keep your people out of my way without putting anyone at risk.”

Hayes nods. “Understood.”

“Good.” Reed turns again, already walking. “And Major?”

“Yes?”

“If your team causes trouble, I will send them back to Earth. With or without your permission.”

Hayes doesn’t rise to it. Just inclines his head. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“Good.” There’s another pause. “You’ll need to liaise with Ensign Rogers.” Reed tells him. 

Rogers. “The blonde?”

Reed looks up, clearly unimpressed with his description. “Yes. She’s my second, she runs the team while I’m on the bridge.”

Which explains the way she’d been the center of the room when he’d first walked in, but doesn’t explain why she looks so young. Reed watches him run that through his head, a hint of threat in his posture as he waits for Hayes’ reaction.

“Noted. I’ll pass on our personnel files to her.”

“Good. Send her in on your way out.”

It’s a dismissal if Hayes had ever heard one. He leaves the room.

Rogers isn’t hard to find, already hovering outside the office, as though she knows he’ll want to speak to her next. She doesn’t acknowledge Hayes when he passes. 

So that’s Reed.

He lets out a slow breath, adjusts his cuffs, and heads back toward the converted quarters. His team will want answers. 

*

“Hey.”

Rogers’ voice is quiet as she slips into the room, closing the door behind her with a soft hiss.

Malcolm doesn’t look up right away. Just lets out a breath and stares at the middle distance. “Hi.”

She crosses to his desk, perches on the edge. Their knees bump. He still doesn’t move.

“What’s the verdict?” she asks, after a moment.

He exhales slowly. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t know what to make of them yet,” he clarifies. “They’re MACOs. They’re efficient. And they’re here.”

“Why?”

“Archer requested it.”

She blinks. Frowns slightly. “Seriously?”

He nods, rubs a hand over his face. “Yeah. Just came from his office. He thinks we need the support.”

Rogers’ jaw tightens. “We don’t.”

“No. We don’t,” he agrees, and this time, his voice is firmer. Bitter, even. “But I didn’t say that, did I? I nodded. I said understood, sir .” He scoffs. “You know, when he first told me about the mission, he said ‘You’re the only option I trust.’ Us. Me.”

Rogers glances back at the door, as if she’ll still be able to see Hayes’ retreating figure.

“What happened to that?”

Malcolm finally looks at her. There’s something cracked in the look. Not broken, but worn thin.

“He’s sending over their personnel files,” he says. “I need you to review them. Figure out how they fit.”

“They won’t,” Rogers replies immediately. Then, a beat later, “But I’ll read them.”

He nods, grateful in the way only someone deeply tired can be.

“We still have the advantage,” she says. “We know the ship. We’ve lived this mission longer than anyone else. We know what it takes.”

“They’ll learn,” Malcolm says quietly. Not with malice. Just resignation.

Rogers tilts her head. “And in the meantime?”

He looks past her, to the door she came through. Beyond that, to the corridors, the crew, the pressure still climbing behind his eyes.

“In the meantime,” he says, “we make sure no one gets killed because they’re trying to prove something.”

Rogers doesn’t answer right away. She just nods, slow and deliberate, like she’s filing the sentence away somewhere it’ll echo when she needs it. She’s always been good at learning from orders she’s not sure she agrees with.

“Understood.”

*

When Hayes gets back to the MACO quarters, they’ve already started making themselves at home in the sparse, utilitarian kind of way soldiers do. Bags stowed, boots lined up. There’s a workout circuit half-formed in one corner. 

McKenzie looks up from where she’s organizing the weapons lockers. “That didn’t take long.”

“It was long enough,” Hayes replies, deadpan.

A couple of the others glance over. No one speaks right away, but it’s clear they’ve all been waiting. Watching the clock. Wondering how it went.

“Report?” McKenzie asks, like she already knows what kind of welcome he got.

Hayes doesn’t sit. “Security team wasn’t briefed about our arrival.”

“Seriously?” That’s Ramirez, incredulous. “Starfleet just tossed us in with no warning?”

He shrugs. “Look, from what I’ve seen, the team’s tight-knit. Insular. We’re not going to get a warm welcome.”

“We’re not here for a warm welcome,” McKenzie mutters. “We’re here for the job.”

Hayes nods. “Lieutenant Reed knows that. Barely.”

That gets a few quiet chuckles. Tension bleeds off, just a little.

“Tomorrow we’re sitting down with the senior officers,” he continues. “Until then, keep to the schedule. Stay out of their way. No challenges, no showing off. This is not a proving ground. Not yet.”

He looks around the room. They meet his gaze, one by one.

“Understood?”

A chorus of muted affirmatives. Nothing enthusiastic. But solid.

Still, as Hayes moves to his locker, he catches the glances passed between a few of them; the familiar flickers of anticipation, challenge, pride.

They’re professionals. But they’re MACOs, too. Trained to push. To prove. To hold the line even when no one wants them there.

This ship doesn’t trust them yet. That much is clear.

The question is, how long will it take before it does?

*

There isn’t even a briefing room for them to use – and Hayes knew it was never a military ship, but that just seems insane. Instead, they’re told to gather in the armoury. 

It’s the security team’s territory, and all of them know it.

The room is large enough for drills, maintenance, and light training, but not for this. Not for two full squads of armed personnel standing shoulder to shoulder, refusing to look at each other.

Hayes arrives with his MACOs in silent formation. They take the right-hand side of the room, automatically lining up against the wall like it’s a parade ground.

The security team is already there. Twenty of them, give or take. Some are standing. Some are seated on crates or benches. None of them move. They don’t introduce themselves. They don’t offer greetings. They just watch. Warily.

Hayes doesn't know their names yet. Just Reed – who isn’t yet present – and Rogers who he’d been sort-of introduced to the day before. 

She’s standing at the front of their group, arms crossed, jaw tight. Her expression is a carefully constructed mask, but her stance screams protector. Challenge. A wall he’s not meant to cross.

Beside her stands a tall redhead; silent, sharp-eyed. A few paces behind them, a broad-shouldered man in a torn undershirt leans back against the lockers, chewing something with slow, deliberate disinterest.

A no-man’s land stretches between the two groups: an unspoken barrier across the middle of the room. Not a single person steps into it.

The air is thick. Tense. Recycled too many times, stale with friction before a single word is spoken.

McKenzie coughs. The attention of the room shifts to her.

“Hi.”

She’s greeted with silence. Rogers narrows her eyes slightly, as if she’s trying to work out what McKenzie means by that.

“Or not.” She mumbles, loud in the silent room.

Reed choses that moment to enter. The shift is immediate. The security team straightens. The MACOs clock the change too, subtly adjusting posture, even if they’re not sure why.

Hayes nods at him, doesn’t offer a smile. 

“This is Lieutenant Reed,” He says, by way of introduction, even though it’s obvious. “Ship’s Tactical Officer. Head of security.”

No one replies. A few MACOs incline their heads. The security officers do not.

Reed doesn’t greet them. He doesn’t bother with introductions either. “You all know why we’re here.”

The security team all nod. Apparently they are capable of reactions. 

“We’ve been ordered into a hostile theatre,” he continues. “The threat is unknown. The danger is not. Starfleet Command has assigned the MACO unit to assist with this mission.”

Someone in the security team mutters something too low to catch. A ripple of suppressed reactions rolls through their half of the room.

Hayes breathes in deeply through his nose, lets the silence hang for a moment before he steps forward. Reed doesn’t exactly give him the go-ahead to speak, but he doesn’t stop him either.

“I expect coordination. Professionalism. We will be sharing resources, sharing responsibilities.”

“Do you think we’re incapable of that?” Rogers asks. 

Something in that half of the room shifts, as though they’re all prepared to defend her. 

“No. I’m simply stating expectations.”

“We answer to the Lieutenant.” One of them says, a hint of something defensive in his voice. 

Hayes had skimmed all their files, but hadn’t been provided with photos to attach names to faces.

The unspoken words are obvious: not to you.

He looks to Reed, expects some sort of backup, but the man just stares him down, coolly. 

Hayes keeps his tone even. “Understood. I’m not here to overstep.”

“Then don’t,” Rogers replies.

There’s something he can’t quite place in her voice. Something that seems to compliment the way the entire team are only-just angled towards Reed, regardless of who is speaking. 

For a moment, no one moves. Reed still hasn’t said a word since his opening statement, and Hayes realises, abruptly, that he’s the one being evaluated here. Not his unit. Not the mission parameters. Him. And not by the MACOs, but by the twenty officers across the room who don’t blink, don’t speak, don’t break rank, not in formation, but more unified than any squad Hayes has ever commanded.

“I’ll be liaising directly with Lieutenant Reed,” Hayes says, voice steady. “And Ensign Rogers, as second.”

He pauses to gesture to the woman in question, for the benefit of his own team, sees a few of them tilt their heads, appraising. They might be being judged, but they can judge right back. It’s a vindictive thought. Not necessarily conducive to the situation and he scolds himself quietly. 

His statement at least gets a nod of acknowledgment from the redhead beside her: Zhao, maybe. Rogers had named her as the one sent to retrieve Reed the day before.

“We’ll conduct joint drills starting tomorrow,” Reed says finally, his voice dry. “Gear alignment. Combat protocols. Boarding procedures. If you’re not on rotation, you’re expected to be present.”

“We run our own formations,” someone from the MACO side puts in – Ramirez, Hayes thinks with a sigh.

“Then run them elsewhere,” Rogers snaps, quick as a whip.

A low murmur runs through the security team, fast and flickering. The MACOs stiffen, almost imperceptibly. It doesn’t matter how professional they are – they weren’t expecting this. Not hostility, exactly, but this defensiveness . This closed circuit. A team that functions like a single creature, curled around a fresh wound.

Hayes lifts a hand slightly, a silent gesture for Ramirez to stand down.

Reed still doesn’t react to the undercurrent. He simply tilts his head, gaze flicking over the MACO squad.

“Any questions?” he asks.

None are voiced.

“Good. Ensign Rogers will provide a schedule for integration. And Major Hayes…” He glances back at Hayes, expression unreadable. “You’ll forward a list of your personnel’s qualifications before tomorrow. Tactical preferences. Deployment records. Anything I haven’t already been given.”

Hayes nods once. “Of course.”

Reed looks at neither group. “Dismissed.”

The word isn’t shouted. It’s barely louder than conversation level. And yet, both halves of the room move at once.

The security team breaks formation like smoke, moving in a coordinated drift, dispersing into pairs and clusters, heading toward lockers, gear racks, or the exits. The MACOs remain more contained. More traditional. Hayes sees a few of his people trading looks with the security officers, sizing them up, exchanging silent evaluations that are equal parts interest and challenge.

Rogers doesn’t leave. She waits. Watching Hayes. As if daring him to follow her out.

He doesn’t.

Reed turns on his heel and leaves without another word. The doors hiss shut behind him. 

“Okay,” McKenzie says under her breath as they return to the MACO corridor. “So we’re not friends.”

Hayes just exhales slowly and begins mentally rewriting the next three days’ worth of drills.

“It’ll pass.” He tells them, without conviction. “They’ll get used to us.”

*

The entirety of Reed’s security team is gathered around one table when he walks into the mess. Apparently, their shifts overlap enough for them to eat together. There are several abandoned trays on the tables around them, some with the remainder of breakfast foods and others with the remainder of dinner.

He walks as close past them as he can without looking weird on his way to the food and manages to catch a part of their conversation.

“Well, now you’re just being unrealistic.”

“No, no, come on, you can’t see it?”

The table laughs, loud enough that the rest of the room looks over to see what’s going on, although no one actually approaches to ask. Hayes isn’t confident enough on the dynamics of the ‘fleeters to comment on them, but the security team feels like a separate organism: self-contained, largely uninterested in mingling the way the rest of the crew does.

Rogers glances up, sees him watching and he turns away again. It’s one thing to watch the security team interact, it’s an entirely different thing for them to be aware of it. 

“What are they doing?” McKenzie asks, quietly, when he finally sits down. The rest of the MACOs keep glancing over at the group, a general air of wariness surrounding them. 

He shrugs. “No clue.”

“They’re making a bet,” Forbes offers. He seems particularly wary of Reed’s team, sitting sideways in his seat slightly so he can keep an eye on them. 

“On what?”

Forbes shrugs. “Can’t hear them. But that’s gotta be it, they’re gathered around one person, gotta be their bookie.” 

Hayes glances back over, catching Rogers’ eye again. “They were saying about something being unrealistic when I walked past.”

Forbes waves his knife like that proves his point. “Exactly.”

“Are they running numbers again?” Reed says nearby, voice low but easy to catch.

The MACOs all go quiet. Listening.

Rogers laughs slightly. “They’re bored, and it’s tense.”

“What’s it on?”

He doesn’t hear an answer, but Reed snorts, amused. “Who’s at the top?”

Instead of an answer, Rogers gestured him over to the table where the rest of the team look up hopefully. It’s weird. The way they look at him whenever he walks in, like they’re all sunflowers and Reed’s the sun.

“Wanna put something down, Lieutenant?” One of them asks. 

“Who’s at the top?” Reed asks again, leaning over, the ones around him shuffling slightly so he can get a good look at whatever’s on the screen. He laughs, a short sound. “You do know that bullying the chief engineer is a bad idea, yes?”

A few of them scoff. “We’re not bullying him,” Rogers objects, “statistically speaking, he is the most likely to do it.”

There’s a pause as Reed reads over the rest of the list. And then, “Twenty. On Mayweather.”

A hand squeezes his knee briefly as she settles, cross-legged. “Before this mission, I didn’t really think he was even capable of being angry.”

“Well.”

She nudges the plate slightly closer to him, and he takes the hint. It’s just a cheese sandwich, cold and the bread’s a little stale, probably straight out of the freezer, but as he chews, it occurs to him that she was the second person to ever bring him food. The only other time had been Hoshi and the pineapple cake, the memory of which still makes him smile.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you.” It comes out a little thick around the bread and the emotion.

Rogers shrugs, silently reaching over to pull the tangled cables closer to herself.

“No, Emma.” He places his hand over hers and waits until she meets his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re alright.” She smiles, briefly. “Besides, it’s probably not me you should be apologising to.”

The memory of Hayes’ face – battered and bruised by his own fist – swims through his mind and he winces. “Yeah.”

The careful movements of her hands through the cables, and the slow fading of a hunger he hadn’t realised was there, steady him.

“I suppose the fallout has already become apparent?”

Rogers shifts to bring one knee up to her chest, leaning her chin on it thoughtfully as he fingers continue to soothe the knots out. “Hm. The MACOs don’t really want to be around us, but that’s not exactly new, so…”

“You were starting to get along.”

She doesn’t meet his eyes. “I guess.”

“That’s… reversed? For all of you?”

“Yeah. I think they kind of hold us responsible for… you.”

Another deep pit of guilt threatened to overwhelm him. “Because my behaviour reflects badly on all of you.” He sighs again, ignoring the pain in his ribs. “God, I’m sorry, I should have thought—”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not!” He threw his hands up. “I might as well actively be compromising this mission, it’s no wonder the captain…”

He trails off, feeling her eyes on the side of his face, and they both sit in silence for a moment before she speaks, saving him from having to finish the sentence.

“I don’t think you need to beat yourself up as well.” 

What would the end of that sentence even have been? No wonder the captain brought the MACOs aboard? No wonder Hayes is trying to replace him?

“Is that, I don’t need to beat myself up because someone else has already done it for me, or I don’t need to add to the general violence?”

She hums. “Both. It’s a versatile statement like that.”

The smile hurts his already split lip and tugs at the bruises on his cheekbone. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good.” She knocks their shoulders together lightly.

“I need to fix this.”

“Uh uh. We. We need to fix this. We’re a team, remember?”

“Emma.”

A frown crosses her face, ever so briefly. “Don’t. We’re a team. We fix things together.”

“OK. OK, we’re a team. What does the team think?”

“I haven’t asked.”

The snort of laughter he lets out this time is amused. “Alright.”

“But we’ll, uh… what’s the word? Brain…clouds?”

“Brainstorm.” He’s the one to knock their shoulders together this time. “The word’s brainstorm.”

In a fit of an emotion he can’t quite name, he slings an arm around her shoulder and pulls her into him. He’s not expecting her to drop the cables and wrap both of hers around him, but he relaxes into it.

“We can fix this.”

“We can fix it,” he echoes, and takes up some of the cables, leaving the rest for her. “Who used these last, by the way? This is an unacceptable state to leave them in.”

Rogers tenses slightly, only noticeable by the way their shoulders are pressed together and it gives him the answer he needs before she speaks.

“The MACOs.” 

“I’ll speak to McKenzie,” she promises, “make sure they all know how to look after the equipment.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now eat your apple.”

*

The chime at his door was not unexpected. Word tended to travel fast in a closed community and the Enterprise was no different – Hayes expected that everyone on the ship had heard about his brawl with Reed by this point.

“Enter.”

Behind him, the door swishes, open and closed, allowing another presence into the room. He knew who it was; there was really only one person who would bother him in his quarters. The rest of the MACOs were aware he needed time to himself.

He tugs a shirt over his head, hurriedly, but not quite fast enough to prevent McKenzie from seeing the bruises and whistling lowly at the sight.

“Jesus, you look awful.”

He grits his teeth, ignoring the way it tugs on his recently-fixed cheekbone. “I’m pretty sure insulting a senior officer is counted as insubordination, Corporal.”

She’s leaning against the bulkhead when he turns to face her, both eyebrows raised.  “I mean, I was gonna say that I’m pretty sure that beating the crap out of a senior officer is grounds for much more than that, but from where I’m standing it looks like he gave as good as he got.” 

“Did you actually want something or are you just here to mock me?”

She shrugs, moving further into the room to fiddle with some of the things on his shelves. “Came to see how you are. Also to tell you that you don’t have to do the self-imposed isolation if you don’t want. Reed’s hiding so you’re unlikely to bump into him.”

“Thanks.”

She pauses by a photo of him as child, his mother’s arms around him and smiles on both their faces. “Honestly, Jay, what were you thinking?”

“If I say he started it, will you hit me?”

“Yes.” She isn’t laughing.

“I don’t know.” He slams the cupboard shut. “Honestly, I just… I don’t know.”

She sighs again, gentle. “You’ve opened some of those cuts up again. C’mon.”

*

The corridors on the Enterprise all look the same, especially at this time when there are very few people about, and yet Malcolm knows the moment he steps into the area they’ve subconsciously labelled as the MACOs’. Nothing changes visibly, but he knows.

Something in him wants to turn back, to avoid this area of the ship entirely, but he’d agreed, promised the captain that he would make an effort. And part of that had to include using those areas of the ship he had previously deemed “off limits.”

It’s as dim here as anywhere else, the ship’s lights dimmed for the night cycle, and he doesn’t expect to see anyone, but voices drift from an open doorway as he approaches. Voices that he recognises immediately.

Hayes.

And McKenzie.

They should be asleep – although Malcolm is self-aware enough to admit that thought is hypocritical – not sat in the small room that they must have made their ‘common area’.

He pauses, just out of sight of the doorway, using the shadows to hide him.

“Hold still,” McKenzie says, somewhere between exasperated and fond.

“I am holding still,” Hayes replies, annoyed in that dignified way he manages even when he’s exhausted.

“You’re holding still like Mayweather’s version of holding the ship still.”

The phrase makes Malcolm smile despite himself. Somehow, McKenzie seems to have picked up on some of the jokes the security team bat between them.

“Jay, tilt your goddamn head.”

He steps a little closer – not spying, he tells himself, just… observing.

Hayes is perched on a table, McKenzie stood between his legs, fingers lightly probing a bruise Malcolm had left on his cheekbone, a damp cloth in her other hand.

As he watches, Hayes endures it with the stoicism of a man facing enemy fire, jaw tight, eyes forward, and yet there’s something soft in the corner of his eyes.

“Should have dragged you back to sickbay,” she mutters, “injuries reopening and you were just gonna, what? Sleep it off?”

“Didn’t seem worth it.”

“Well, you’re wrong.” She presses fingers against the cut on his forehead; he flinches. “Stop acting like you’re made of… hull plating or something.”

Hayes huffs and it’s almost a laugh.

Nearly.

“I’m gonna fix this.”

“We’re gonna fix this.” McKenzie corrects.

“Kenz, this is my problem.”

“Uh huh. And we’re your team. So.”

He sighs, batting her hand away. “Careful with that, you’re gonna start sounding like Reed’s fanatics.”

“Can I suggest that fixing this might start with being nicer to the security team? Anyway, it’s kind of sweet, don’t you think?”

He hops off the table. “You’re the one that said it was creepy.”

“I know, but… they care about him so much, it’s…”

“Sweet?”

“Yeah.” She chucks the cloth off into the corner somewhere, Malcolm can’t quite see from his hidden vantage point.

“I can fix this.”

Unaware that they’re being watched, McKenzie’s voice softens. “Jay… you don’t have to take everything on yourself.”

Something in Hayes’ posture shifts. Not much, just a fraction. But Malcolm sees it, sees the way he almost leans into her – trust. Familiarity.

She’s giving him a space to be human.

McKenzie is Hayes’ Rogers.

He watches as she nudges his shoulder, gentle but firm, and Hayes finally lets his spine ease a little. Lets himself be cared for. They argue a bit more – quiet and comfortable – and she leaves him with a final squeeze to his arm and an order to rest, sir, or so help me.

Malcolm doesn’t have time to hide; he’s visible when Hayes steps into the hall.

For a heartbeat, neither of them speak.

Hayes straightens instantly, falling back into command posture. “Lieutenant.”

“Major.” Malcolm nods, crisp, impersonal. He wants to say something else, but the words seem to crumble before they can materialize. “Goodnight.”

Hayes tilts his head, softer than Malcolm expects. “Goodnight.” And moves past him, heading towards his quarters.

Behind him, McKenzie’s voice echoes faintly behind him: “I mean it, Jay. Don’t make me drag you back to sickbay.”

Reed turns his head just enough to see Hayes’ ears flush slightly red. He’s about to continue his wander of the halls when Hayes speaks again.

“You should too.”

“What?”

“Rest. You should rest too. Sir.”

He hesitates, just briefly, and Hayes gestures down the corridor – of course, Malcolm remembers, his quarters are in the same place as the security team.

“Alright.”

They walk side by side. Quiet. It’s not forgiveness, not camaraderie, but understanding.

And When Hayes leaves him at his door, the room feels suddenly lonelier.

He pretends not to notice.

*

Something has settled in the air by the next morning – for the two security teams, at least, Malcolm is still receiving slightly scared looks from the rest of the crew when he passes them, and he retreats to the armoury.

Rogers is in there, McKenzie too, and a small grouping of both teams. They’re not quite interacting, but they’re not avoiding each other either, and he gets greetings from both sides when he enters.

He smiles, even as it pulls on the injuries, and starts the diagnostics on the firing relays – with everything that’s happened recently, these small checks have fallen to the wayside.

By the time he’s finished, the armoury is silent again; the crew having slowly trickled out over the course of a few hours. Rogers had pressed a hand to his shoulder as she left, and he’d squeezed it back.

His head still throbs and his ribs protest every movement, but he’s calm. This is his part of the ship; the place where he knows what will happen, where he’s in charge.

The door hisses open.

Hayes steps inside, stops just inside the threshold, rigid and formal as if he’s not sure he’s allowed in.

Malcolm watches him swallow before he speaks.

“Lieutenant,” his voice is low, almost husky.

“Major.”

He turns away again, leaves Hayes the chance to back out, to pretend that they haven’t bumped into each other. Hayes doesn’t take it.

“I came to… to apologise.”

Malcolm freezes, “That’s unnecessary.” He says, almost automatically. The words are meant to sound professional, but they just sound tired.

The sound of Hayes’ footsteps approach him. “It’s necessary.”

He’s still bruised when Malcolm looks up – it seems worse in the light, and with several hours for the bruises to develop – jaw swollen, split skin still stretched as if the wounds are trying to reopen. For a moment Malcolm thinks they must look like mirror images. He wonders if Archer noticed. He wonders if the captain cared.

“I don’t want your job.” Hayes starts, clearly gearing up for an explanation, but Malcolm cuts him off with a sigh.

“I know. I know that.”

“Oh.”

“I didn’t ask the captain for your help on this mission and he didn’t ask me before he brought you aboard.”

It’s not an explanation, not for his behaviour, but it’s the closest he can get to one.

Hayes nods, slowly. “I… what I said, about your people and you, it was out of line.”

“Everything I’ve done has been out of line.” The self-deprecation slips from his lips before he can stop it.

“Not everything.”

Malcolm looks up, meets his gaze. The armoury hums softly between them.

“We told the captain we’d make an effort.”

“We did.” Hayes agrees, and then with a small, rueful huff. “I didn’t really make it easy on you.”

“I’ll get over it.”

“And I shouldn’t have started you on level two of that training programme.”

Whatever Malcolm had been about to say stumbles in his chest as he processes that – his first reaction is almost anger, but as he actually thinks about it, his mouth twists up in a smile.

“I knew that wasn’t me.” He’s almost laughing.

Hayes looks slightly bemused by his reaction. “It was a dick move.”

“It’s a little funny.” Malcolm tells him.

A beat. Then Hayes offers, awkwardly, almost boyishly:

“I’m heading to the mess hall. You eaten?”

He can recognise the olive branch – we told the captain we’d make an effort – and he can see that there are no teeth behind it.

“No.”

Hayes nods, once. “Walk with me?”

It feels strangely formal. Strangely careful. Malcolm stands anyway.

He half expects the mess to be empty – it’s the middle of the ‘day’ whatever that means in space – but it isn’t.

Rogers and McKenzie are just finishing rearrangements of the furniture; a whole load of tables pulled together in one large circle and chairs shoved around them. Not ‘fleeters on one side and MACOs on the other, but all of them, scattered around the table, watching, uncertain.

There’s an unspoken truce hanging in the air.

Rogers spots them first. She doesn’t smile. But her shoulders loosen and she waves her hands proudly at the construction. For a moment, she looks like a kid, showing off their artwork.

“Lieutenant. Major.” She nudges McKenzie with her elbow.

McKenzie seems equally proud of their attempts, regardless of the way they’ve upset the delicate ecosystem of the mess hall.

“Neutral zone.” She says, bounding over to them. “Whaddya think?”

Malcolm looks at Hayes.

Hayes looks at him.

And for a moment – a real moment – they almost smile.

“We figured… it might be easier if everyone ate together.” Rogers offers, quieter, almost uncertain.

We need to fix this. We’re a team, remember?

You don’t have to take everything on yourself.

“’s a good idea.” Hayes tells her, and then, with more confidence than Malcolm expects, steps towards the table. “Let’s not waste the effort.”

He pulls out a chair and sits.

Malcolm hesitates one fraction of a second longer… then sits beside him.

Their teams follow, shoving themselves around the oddly shaped circle in random places, trying to fit multiple trays in a space that should really only fit one, and the noise follows.

Softly at first; quiet questions, small jokes about the state of the ship, but it rises.

Rogers slides in beside him and nudges their shoulders together, grinning.

He smiles back. For a moment, it seems possible.

Not easy – they certainly haven’t fixed all the cracks that had splintered. But possible.

On his other side, Hayes leans in, voice pitched low so only Malcolm can hear:

“We can make this work, you know.”

Malcolm stares at the table, listens to the sound of their teams mixing, and sees Hayes’ hand next to his, matching bruises on their knuckles.