Disclaimer: Neither Harris is mine. Nor is Malcom Reed or anyone else. I am not making money from this or, in fact, anything else, really.
A/N: Just a short based on me watching a rerun of Star Trek Enterprise, then reading on the internet that the guy was called Harris. That made me think, and then I needed to do something to get myself writing again. So, this happened.
It really should be raining.
He had been doing this sort of thing, in one form or another, for a lot longer than people would believe, but there were still fragments from his childhood that insisted that clandestine meetings should take place at night in a dark alley, and with a light rain or, failing that, a mist. Maybe both.
He smiled to himself as the one who had arranged this little meeting wandered right past him. Apparently he was at least as good at hiding in the shadows as the ‘Brooding Poofter’ had been.
Restraining a smile and making a note to get drunk with the only other survivor from back then, Harris stepped out of the shadows behind the young lieutenant.
“Two meetings in the span of a week. People might start to talk,” he said dryly to the man who had said he never wanted to hear from him again.
Reed, just as aware as Harris of how their last conversation had gone, nodded stiffly in reply. “I don't like it any more than you do.”
“So, you want to go to Mars and you need my help.” Despite the phrasing, it was a statement rather than a question, and Harris had to repress a smirk as he said it.
“You know the situation.” Reed replied, causing Harris to step up the effort on repressing that smirk. The lieutenant had guts, and Harris had always respected that. After all, guts were all he had to begin with, too.
Keeping his smirk under control, the operative – and, secretly, founder - of Starfleet’s secret little department passed along what information he had been able to gather on Terra Prime to the young – everyone
was young to him – armoury officer, and almost let out a laugh at his comment that this would be the last time they met.
Allowing himself a real smile for the first time in about half a century, Alexander Harris couldn’t resist a last shot as he offered Reed his hand.
“Always the optimist. Good luck, Malcolm.”
And then he melted back into the shadows. It was about time to track down Spike and get drunk while remembering what had happened all those years ago.