Confessor

The first time she came to him was after they had entered the Expanse.

After he had destroyed the Klingon ship and all those aboard her.

T'Pol had retired to meditate and Travis sought the privacy of the sweet spot. She knew Jon and Trip were in Jon's ready room, continuing their interrupted rendezvous with a bottle of bourbon and their fiery talk of retribution.

She could do nothing for them. Trip's grief was too fresh, too raw. And Jon's anger was too overpowering. But he had left the bridge, stone-faced and tight lipped, head bowed and moving fast.

When he answered his door she had been surprised by his appearance, although she didn't let it show. Malcolm was clad only in a tattered pair of jeans, disheveled, but it was apparent he hadn't been sleeping. Hoshi squeezed past him and into his spartan quarters, eyes taking in the open bottle of vodka and the half empty glass beside it.

He pulled on a shirt, but not before she saw the delicate silver chain with its three pieces about his neck. She had seen it before, and that was why she was here. The door slid shut and he stood in silence, waiting for her to speak.

She kissed him instead, wrapping her arms around his waist, and murmured, "Vestri venalia incendo mihi."

He stiffened in her arms, startled, but answered her, "Ego quaeso venia."

She led him to the bed and made love to him, speaking Latin all the while.

***

The second time she came to him was after the Vulcan ship was destroyed by his hand, 147 people killed. It was almost a duplicate of their first encounter—ragged jeans, open bottle, whispered recitations in Latin as they made love.

But she stayed the night this time, fingers fretting with the three pieces suspended from the chain around his neck as she held him tight while he slept.

***

He came to her for the first time, after Tarquin. This time the surprise did show on her face as she watched him walk into her quarters.

Tarquin had been an uneasy combination of a voyeuristic nightmare and a tragic creature, and she was still disturbed and unsettled by the violation. Thankful to be away from his sinister overtures, guilty at leaving him so utterly alone, his solitude enough to drive any sentient being to desperation and madness, despair that she couldn't bring herself to do anything for such a pitiful wretch, yet angry at the absolute callousness displayed while defiling her inner thoughts and privacy.

She felt foul and soiled, yet unworthy and cruel. He hugged her, breathing the words she had spoken to him that first time, their roles reversed. She replied, repeating his usual response, a feeling of relief washing over her.

He stayed the night, holding her close, arms embracing her, one hand against her necklace, loosely holding the pieces that dangled from it.

***

Trip sought solace in T'Pol, Jon found succor in his overwhelming rage, and Travis maintained his boomer equilibrium, a calm acceptance of the fates as more destruction and death was dispensed.

And after each time, she came to him with the whispered words in Latin, comforting and soothing. Hoshi would remain until morning and he eventually told her that the first medallion, a modest tin-like trinket, was from his mother, the last time he saw her years ago. St. Christopher, patron saint of travelers. The cross was from his baptism, an infant's small token, not the usual gold, but silver, well worn and now tarnished. The third piece was newer than either of them, something he picked up the last time he was on earth, when he went to Florida with Trip. St. Jude, patron saint of desperate cases and lost causes. He thought it had been appropriate.

On occasion he would come to her, when she needed him, whenever her part in their mission became unclean. He'd murmur the words, caressing her, and she would reply as they made love, consuming each other's sins.

And it brought them peace.

***

1 your sins into me

2 I beg for forgiveness