The Expense

He sent the man he did not love out into the night, knowing that the chances of his return were slim.

He was the captain. That was his job, his duty.

He did it for Earth, for the seven million people killed, for Lizzie; he did it for Trip, his best friend.

He did it for revenge.

They were so close to discovering the Xindi homeworld. And he had become willing to sacrifice almost anything in order to get that information, to protect the rest of his world and the innocents on that lush and green planet he hadn't seen for over a year now.

He couldn't afford emotional ties, complications that would distract him from his objective—Starfleet's goal, Earth's best interest. So he allowed the man he could not love, the man he had not longed for since their first year out, to slip into the night on a dangerous hunt for much needed intelligence.

They'd lost a dozen crewmen already in their quest, each death a blow to him, each death personal, each death making him a little more brittle, a little more vengeful.

They had lost the MACOs who had come aboard, skirmishes on insignificant planets like this one, their deaths furthering Earth's ends.

But they had made progress. They were close, so close…and he had convinced himself that the deaths of his crew people had been worth it.

***

Jon waited for the man he did not love to return, unable to extinguish that glimmer of hope that he would come back, no matter how ruthlessly he tried to suppress it. He told himself it was because of the mission, because they needed the information. He told himself that it was because he couldn't afford to lose his tactical officer, especially now, when they were so close.

He tried not to think it was because it was this particular man. That he wished for this to be over, or for it never to have happened. He tried not to think that things may have been different if only Earth hadn't been attacked.

Before the devastation inflicted on their world, Malcolm had become approachable, and Jon knew that he had finally breached those walls and barriers. He cherished the memory of each tentative gesture Malcolm had made, each hesitant word, culminating in an uncertain kiss and the prospect of something more.

But the attack and their subsequent experiences had quelled any possibility of furthering what could have been. He couldn't afford the entanglements, the pain, that could prevent him from ordering a lover into a dangerous situation. And they needed to take risks now, needed to be strong.

He told himself he didn't love him.

Those treasured memories hadn't prevented him from sending Malcolm out to die if necessary. If they had been lovers, Jon was certain he would not have been able to do that, no matter the need.

Jon's sudden withdrawal had confused his armory officer, and Jon thought it had hurt him as well. He regretted that. But he had to keep his priorities clear. This was no time for self-indulgence.

But sometimes…he wondered.

He knew nothing could bring those seven million souls back. But he wondered if a chance at happiness, at love, would have sustained him through the rigors of this pursuit better than the cold vengeance that was his only companion.

Trip had changed. Their friendship was hollow now, their only common bond was the promise of retribution.

T'Pol was still loyal, her advice and knowledge useful, but no longer the confidant she had been. She was reclusive, devoting more time to meditating and avoiding her crewmates to maintain her badly damaged mental disciplines, the Expanse and subsequent missions having taken their toll on her.

Hoshi had found solace in Travis, her outrage and anger at the ease Jon had been willing to sacrifice her on an assignment gone sour had destroyed any esteem and trust that she had in Jon. Travis was sullen and brooding, his once handsome face now scarred and twisted from a successful search and destroy mission that resulted in only two Enterprise casualties. But they had gotten what they needed. They always did.

Malcolm still showed Jon a dedication that was partly ingrain, following orders. But Jon knew it was partly something else. And he was grateful for that.

But still, he told himself that he did not love him.

He told himself that each time he watched Malcolm come back wounded and exhausted, each time he came back bloody, smeared with his own or that of those who opposed them.

He told himself that repeatedly as he watched the expressive eyes of the man he did not love become more dull and detached after each brutal confrontation.

He told himself that the price was worth it; that slow destruction of his bridge crew and friends, the slow damage to the soul of the man he did not love. It was for a greater good, for the safety of the billions of people back home.

So he waited. For the man whom he didn't love; couldn't love.

To return.