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Chapter Text

Sometimes it’s a wonder that he doesn’t get dizzy from the view. 

Malcolm Reed, Chief Strategic Officer of SafeHaven Solutions, looks out at the panoramic view offered by his floor-to-ceiling windows. The cars and people on the bustling streets of New York City remind him of blood cells pumping through veins, ever-working to keep the body alive and moving. When he had first arrived in New York, it had taken him a few months to adjust to the city’s pace and brusque personality, but he eventually found that he liked the way people tended to keep to themselves for the most part. Being a private man, himself, it’s an oddly comforting thought to know that most of the population in this city couldn’t care less about his personal business.

He glances around the interior of his office, noting the framed certificates and accolades that showcase his accomplishments before and during his time at TrekSafe Solutions. Although he prefers being out on the field, he can’t deny the plush comfortability of having an executive position, even if it means that he is confined to an office building. But he’d made sure that his office was bearable, since he would be spending the majority of his time here. The color scheme is predominantly neutral, with tones of muted blues and grays, creating a professional and calming ambiance. 

His assistant, Elizabeth Cutler, had taken it upon herself last night to hang up some garland and white lights around the room. But he can’t be mad at her: it looks like an office straight out of an interior design magazine. Even the most holiday-averse person would have to admit that the lights added a warm, fashionable glow, even against the recessed lighting that highlighted the polished surfaces of the cherry-wood furniture.

What had surprised him the most this morning, however, was finding that the large executive desk taking center stage had been tastefully adorned with green garland white lights, complete with matte bronze and silver glass ball ornaments. 

A knock on his door makes him turn around. “Come in,” he calls. 

Elizabeth Cutler, his assistant, steps inside. She wears her bell necklace and candy cane earrings, just toeing the dress-code policy like always. 

“Good morning! Happy December first!”

“It’s just another day,” Malcolm replies with a small smile. “I’m honestly surprised it took you this long to decorate my office. I’d half-expected you to sneak in here on Thanksgiving.”

“I haven’t allowed your Scrooginess to get to me in all these years and I’m not about to start now,” Elizabeth replies lightly. “Besides, I was out of town on Thanksgiving.”

Malcolm places his hand on his chest and feels genuinely insulted. “I’m not a Scrooge!” While it’s true that he separated holidays from the workplace, aside from the holiday parties and occasional festive tie, he can’t remember a time when he’d acted like the Dickens character pre-ghost visits.

“You tend to complain more during the holidays,” Elizabeth comments wryly as she walks over to the desk and places some papers down. 

“That’s because most of the people I interact with are more insufferable with their entitlement than usual!” He defends incredulously. 

“That’s what I’m saying!” Elizabeth obviously finds this funny, given her amused grin. “Part of Christmas is being forgiving and patient. So have more patience with stubborn people, and then we’ll talk. Besides, you hardly have any personal touches! And no,” she cuts Malcolm off when he opens his mouth to argue, “your certificates and awards don’t count.”

“I have artwork hanging up that I like,” he mutters petulantly. He even has a framed picture of his parents on one side of his desk and a framed picture of his sister, Madeline, on the other.

“And yet nothing to show off your interests. Nothing to hint at sports, hobbies… The poor clients who come in here for a meeting and try to find something in common with you are always left floundering, and how can they charm their way through a meeting like that?”

Malcolm rolls his eyes and Elizabeth swats his arm playfully. “Now,” she begins, pointing to the papers with a bright red and white-striped finger nail, “you have a video conference with Roger Burr at 8:30 AM our time, 12:30 PM his time. Then you have to finish writing that reference letter for the intern, and the rest of your day is filled with follow-up calls.”

“So Jake has decided to go for the program after all?” Malcolm smiles fondly. “Good for him.” The company provides a two-year program for people who want to be trained in the security sector. Jake had interned during the summer, fresh out of college, and Malcolm saw a lot of potential in the young man. 

“Yes, I think you inspired him. Although, he seems more inclined to go for the training division instead of the office life.” Elizabeth opens the door to leave but stops and says over her shoulder, “Oh, and Mr. Forrest wants to see you at one o’clock.”

Malcolm feels a little bit of acid form in his throat. “What!? Why didn’t you mention that sooner?”

“It’s more fun this way.” With an innocent smile, Elizabeth shuts the door and leaves Malcolm to his doom. 

He slumps down in his ergonomic chair and sighs. All of the wind in his sails this morning is now gone, and as he goes on with his day, he tries to get the momentum back. He’d woken up unusually optimistic, feeling like today was going to be an especially good day. And it had gone smoothly up until Elizabeth dropped that bombshell. The meeting with Mr. Forrest looms over him like a dark cloud.

Chapter Text

Malcolm hesitates outside the imposing double doors of Maxwell Forrest's office, adorned with a sleek brass nameplate that simply reads "Maxwell Forrest - Chief Operations Officer." The air of authority emanating from this threshold is palpable, even before Malcolm crosses it.

Upon entering, Malcolm finds himself enveloped in an atmosphere of refined opulence. The spacious room is a testament to Maxwell Forrest's seasoned leadership and unabashed taste for the finer things in life. The desk, an expansive mahogany behemoth (bigger than any of the other desks in the office), dominates the center of the room. Its polished surface seems to reflect the city skyline visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Malcolm can’t help but marvel at the commanding view.

Maxwell's collection of carefully curated memorabilia from his various triumphs adorn the shelves, silently narrating the tales of corporate conquest. Awards and accolades, impeccably arranged, sparkle under the glow of strategically placed recessed lighting. There is the obvious lack of Elizabeth Cutler’s personal holiday decorative touch, and Malcolm finds himself happy that his office is the special one.

The seating area, nestled by the windows, exudes an air of exclusivity. Plush leather chairs beckon visitors to discuss matters of importance in an environment where decisions are made and destinies shaped. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafts from a discreetly placed espresso machine, adding a touch of sophistication.

The pièce de résistance is undoubtedly the wall-mounted display screen, a vast canvas for graphs and charts that visualize the intricate web of operations under Maxwell's purview. It serves as a constant reminder that in this realm, data reigns supreme.

As Malcolm takes in the opulence, he can’t shake the feeling that every element of Maxwell Forrest's office is meticulously arranged to convey a singular message—this is a space where power, precision, and success converge, no matter the cost.

It isn’t as though Forrest and Malcolm don’t get along per se, nor can it be said that Malcolm is frightened of Forrest. In all his years of life and career, Malcolm had seen things far scarier than the likes of Maxwell Forrest. But the older man reminds Malcolm of his father, and has an air about him that is both intriguing and irksome. The COO possesses a magnetic charisma that simultaneously fascinates and grates on Malcolm. It is an uncanny synergy of competence and self-assuredness that crosses the border to arrogance; an aura that leaves Malcolm oscillating between admiration and exasperation. Every interaction with Forrest feels like a dance, a complex choreography of corporate finesse that sometimes leaves Malcolm questioning the rhythm of his own steps.

“Mister Reed,” Forrest’s gruff voice greets, waving Malcolm inside, “have a seat.”

Another part of this dance is that Malcolm never knows whether he is about to be chewed out or rewarded. He efficiently makes his way to a plush leather chair and sits down, noting that these are more plush than the set five weeks ago. 

“How can I be of service, Mister Forrest?”

A twist of a wry smile grows on Forrest’s lips as he eyes Malcolm. “Always eager to please, Mister Reed. I like that about you.”

The corner of Malcolm’s mouth briefly twitches upwards.

“Just eager to do my job,” he replies neutrally.

“Well, let’s hope that attitude stays with you for your next task.”

Malcolm blinks and feels the tension in his shoulders grow tighter.

“ We need Tucker's Cozy Homestead Farm. It's crucial for the new project. Go there, talk to the owner, Trip Tucker, and get him on board," Forrest instructs, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

Malcolm furrows his brow, intrigued yet puzzled by the specific request. "Why this farm? What's the project?" And why me? He wants to ask.

Forrest leans forward, emphasizing each word. "It's classified for now. Your job is to secure that farm. We've invested too much to let it slip away."

That doesn’t satisfy Malcolm’s warranted curiosity. “What exactly will I be telling or asking Mister Tucker to do?”

“Tell him that we want to offer him two-hundred thousand dollars for his farm. If he doesn’t jump at the offer, he’s crazy. That farm is going under sooner rather than later, especially for being in 

Panama City, Florida.”

Malcolm’s eyebrows raise and his eyes widen in surprise that he can’t contain. There is a lot to unpack in those sentences. “Panama City, Florida ?” 

“Shocking, I know. From what I know about the farm, it’s known for its ‘magical ability’,” Forrest uses air quotes, “to produce more than other farms around it every year without fail. But we’re experiencing an exceptionally cold winter this year, and the Tuckers are foolish if they don’t see that their land is going to stop producing.”

It isn’t that Malcolm has some moral code preventing him from buying land from people, but something about this whole thing doesn’t quite sit right with him. Maybe it is just the fact that he has to go to Florida , of all places. And not even Miami or Orlando. He’s never even heard of Panama City.

“Not that I’m not flattered by your confidence in my ability to handle this job,” Malcolm begins wryly, causing Forrest to smirk, “but why me? Offering to buy out a family farm seems like a job better suited for someone with more diplomatic abilities. Someone like, I don’t know, Hoshi?”

Forrest chuckles. “I’ll admit that you weren’t my first choice. Along with Miss Sato’s exceptional diplomatic abilities, it wouldn’t hurt for Mister Tucker to hear an offer like that from a beautiful woman.”

Malcolm’s eyes narrow as he struggles to force a smile that doesn’t look nauseated.

Forrest shrugs nonchalantly and clasps his hands together. “But she’s on another assignment and won’t be back for a couple of weeks.”

“And this assignment can’t wait a few more weeks?” Malcolm knows he is pushing his luck.

“It can’t,” Forrest replies, still smiling as though he is enjoying this. “And even if it could, she has a few other assignments with stubborn clients that have more to lose than some two-bit farmer.”

Does this man even hear himself? Even Malcolm has to refrain from wincing at that offhand comment.

“Alright, when do I leave?” Malcolm had already resigned himself to this assignment a few minutes ago.

“A car will pick you up at your place at six thirty tomorrow morning. You’ll be taking the company jet. We’ve got two now.” Forrest winks proudly. 

Intuitively, he knows the conversation is over so he nods to Forrest and stands up, flattening down his blazer. “I’ll keep you posted.”

“Miss Cutler will have the paperwork ready for you before the end of the day,” Forrest informs him. 

Ever the strategic thinker, Malcolm begins formulating his approach. As he leaves Forrest’s office, he can’t shake the feeling that this assignment will be different.

Chapter Text

“What do you mean ‘commercial flight?’” Malcolm asks the driver, trying not to sound menacing. 

“Miss Cutler called me right before I arrived and told me that you’re going to have to fly commercial. Something’s wrong with both company jets.”

Malcolm’s eye twitches and he sits back in the leather seat to glare out the window. “More like someone is taking it for a joyride,” he mutters, although he knows that isn’t true. Yes, he is aware of how spoiled he sounds, but he’d gotten used to flying in the private jet. Who could blame him? It saved him the headache of security, check-in, crowds–things that he dealt with enough already in his line of work. 

As the car drives through the nauseating traffic to JFK airport, Malcolm decides he’s waited long enough and Elizabeth should be awake by now. He selects her contact information from his phone and waits impatiently for her to answer. The second he hears her voice, he speaks.

“Elizabeth, what is this about me flying commercial?”

“Oh, you poor thing.” Elizabeth’s voice is laced with sarcasm and heavy with sleep. She sighs exasperatedly. “The new jet is stuck in Montana due to a snowstorm. All flights are grounded. The older jet needs maintenance.”

“Wasn’t it just serviced?” 

“What do you think?” Elizabeth deadpans, and Malcolm can clearly imagine her expression as though she’s sitting right in front of him. 

“Right. Wanted to save the company some money.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut. Sometimes this company’s priorities were incongruent with the most important, obvious tasks. “And now they’re having to pay far more because they didn’t maintain it properly. So I’m stuck with a layover in Charlotte for two hours.”

“Just think of this as an opportunity to get back in touch with the common man before your interrogation—I mean meeting—with Mister Tucker.” 

“I’m no Scrooge and I’m certain that this Mister Tucker is no Bob Cratchit,” Malcolm argues with a frown. 

Elizabeth laughs. “You’re telling a small town farmer to sell his family’s farm only three weeks before Christmas.”

Malcolm bristles and sits up straighter. “It’s not as though we’re going to bulldoze the whole thing as soon as he signs it over! He’ll have one more Christmas there.”

“So generous. I’m sure if you put it that way, it won’t seem so bad.”

Malcolm groans, knowing that Elizabeth has a point. 

~ ~ ~

Malcolm sips his coffee at the airport cafe and calls Hoshi. 

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” The reprimanding voice doesn’t phase Malcolm. 

“Oh, please,” he says with a smirk, “we both know you’re schmoozing with the clients at a restaurant right now.”

“A party, actually, and I’m already exhausted. It’s 12:43 in the morning.”

“Ouch. Wait, where are you?”

“Tokyo,” Hoshi replies, and Malcolm can hear her amused smile. 

“That makes even more sense to what Forrest said, then.”

Hoshi has the audacity to laugh. “Yeah, I wanted to give you a heads’ up, but…”

“It is more fun for you if I find out the hard way. You’re such a good friend.” But there is no bitterness in his tone. 

“I figured some traveling would do you some good.” There is the sound of a door opening and the loud music becomes muffled. She must have stepped outside. 

“So what’s it like in Tokyo?”

“Beautiful, as always. Especially this time of year. I know you didn’t call me just to ask about Tokyo.”

“You know me too well. And I assume you already know about the assignment I was given because your schedule was full. Hoshi, how am I going to persuade Mr. Tucker to sell his farm?”

“First things first, don’t survey the land before you introduce yourself. If someone sees a stranger strolling their property uninvited, well, we both know it all goes downhill from there. Most of all, approach with respect. Will you have time to rest when you land?”

Malcolm scoffs. “No. I got stuck flying commercial and my next flight doesn’t land in ECP until 4:00.”

“Yeesh. And you have to meet with Tucker today?”

“I suppose I could move it to tomorrow morning. By the time I get settled into my hotel, it’ll be dinner time.”

Hoshi chuckles. “Yeah, not a good idea to interrupt someone’s dinner. Especially when you’re kicking them out of their home.”

Malcolm feels his hackles raise. “Whose side are you on, Hoshi?”

“Relax. I’m on nobody’s side. It was just a joke. Listen, I’ve gotta go but let me know how it goes.”

“Hoshi-“

“Bye!”

The line clicks off and Malcolm stares at his phone. He sighs heavily and looks at his watch. He still has twenty minutes before he has to board. Maybe he can find some kind of gift for Mr. Tucker and the family. Something to soften the blow. 

“Fat chance of that happening,” he mutters under his breath, only to look up and see an elderly woman eyeing him warily as she passes him. 

Before he can wonder what that is about, he hears a familiar tune and looks up at the cafe television. He groans when he sees the familiar opening shot: A futuristic skyline with the TrekSafe Security logo shining in neon lights. 

A woman’s upbeat, friendly voice plays in the background as scenes play of families, businesses, and regular individuals going about their daily lives.

“In a world where safety meets innovation, there's only one name you can trust. TrekSafe Security—your guardian in the galaxy of security solutions. Whether it's safeguarding your home or securing your business, TrekSafe is here for you."

The rest of the commercial fades into the background as Malcolm pays his bill and stands up to leave. Before he leaves, however, he hears the cheerfully overdone, cheesy tagline follow him out the door like a haunting call:

“TrekSafe Security—Where safety meets the future. Because whether it's a personal guard or a home security system, make sure you always TrekSafe."

Malcolm rolls his eyes and heads to the gift shop. It looks like a Christmas bomb exploded, with no rhyme or reason in the decorating. He can’t help but feel amused as he imagines Elizabeth’s reaction if she were to see this. After perusing the shelves for about five minutes, he gives up and goes back to his gate to read until it is time to board. 

Chapter Text

Despite being able to sleep on the plane, Malcolm still feels groggy as he disembarks and makes his way to baggage claim. The crowd is considerably smaller and more relaxeed than at JFK so there’s no shoving, and that earns a point for the small town in Malcolm’s book. As he stands and waits for his luggage, he watches the other passengers (a habit from his training) and notices that they’re polite to each other. They make small conversation but find a way to laugh, and Malcolm finds himself feeling nostalgic for England as he overhears two passengers go back and forth a few times over who should get their luggage first, although the accents are distinctly Southern instead of British.

“After you,” an older gentleman with graying hair says.

“Oh, I have too many bags, so it’ll take forever,” a blonde woman in her mid-thirties replies with her own twang. 

“Now, I insist,” the man argues politely.

“I really couldn’t possibly,” the woman defers.

Another interesting thing for Malcolm to note is that no one around him seems perturbed by the delay, even though the small part of him that’s been used to having to thrive in New York City is itching to just get both their bags and be done with it. 

“How about I help you with your bags?” The man offers and requests permission at the same time, and Malcolm thinks about the airport policy of not allowing strangers to handle your luggage. Is this just the Christmas spirit or the small town spirit, he wonders.

“Oh, that would be very helpful, thank you,” the woman replies. 

Seeing that dilemma is now settled, Malcolm looks back at the conveyor belt and spots his own rolling genuine leather duffle bag. It’s hard to miss among the mountain of both colorful and muted flannel suitcases.

He grabs his bag and finds his driver, noting that his attire does not fit in with the rest of the passengers and family members in the pickup line. 

“Are you from the company?” Malcolm asks the older man.

The man nods in the affirmative. “Yes, sir.”

 Figures that TrekSafe wouldn’t hire locals, even for a driver. “Well, it’s good to know that I’ll have some like-company. Lead the way.”

 As the automatic doors slide open, Malcolm isn’t sure why he’s slightly disappointed by the weather. Again, his appreciation for the Christmas season is not at Elizabeth Cutler’s level, but what’s Christmas without cold weather slapping his face? It’s not like New York City is a winter wonderland, but it just feels more like Christmas. Perhaps he’s just so used to the cold weather that the unusually cold weather in Panama City doesn’t affect him.

The coal black Bentley Flying Spur is waiting at the curb, and Malcolm feels a bit like a show stallion as he sees everyone outside eyeing the car with expressions of awe, jealousy, and…Oh, that’s an expression of loathing and judgment. Well, that person just has poor taste. 

 As he gets in the backseat, he tells himself that maybe the scenery outside will make it feel more like the holiday season. He watches out of the window and sees an eclectic mix of beach houses and larger family homes with big yards. Each house is decorated for the holidays: every holiday in December, it appears, and Malcolm needs to tell Elizabeth that this town apparently both welcomes and contains diversity, much to his pleasant surprise. There are also horses and cattle behind long stretches of fencing, which isn’t as surprising.

 Once they’re through the more urban areas and arrive in the actual town itself, Malcolm feels more than sees the old brick road under the car. It must be really old if he can feel it in a Bently. The brick soon turns to cobblestone and Malcolm feels his stomach begin to churn again.

“I don’t know what’s worse: JFK traffic or these roads,” Malcolm mutters, causing the driver to chuckle.

“I’d hate to see the bill for the shocks on this car,” the driver remarks.

Malcolm smirks, imagining Forrest having to justify that expense.

Pineville is a picturesque small town and Malcolm feels as though he’s fallen into a storybook. The streets are adorned with twinkling lights that dance and flash against the varying candy cane, tree, and nutcracker-shaped tinsel decorations that hang off of the street lamps. It creates a whimsical atmosphere that pulls at Malcolm’s resistance.

Quaint storefronts, dressed in festive decorations, line the streets with welcoming windows boasting cheerful displays. He rolls down his window and the scent of freshly baked goods wafts through the air from the local bakery, adding a sweet touch to the wintry ambiance and causing Malcolm’s stomach to growl.

“What time is check-in?” Malcolm asks the driver. “And how far away are we?”

“Any time before five, sir,” the driver replies. “And we’re only ten minutes away. Maybe even five, if traffic stays this clear.”

Malcolm furrows his brow at the odd time for a check-in window. He looks at his watch and sees that it’s four o’clock. 

“Let’s stop and eat somewhere.” It’s more of a statement than a request, and the driver nods.

“Sounds good, sir.”

Malcolm looks back out of the window and sees the residents, bundled up in cozy scarves and hats, exchange warm greetings as they pass by, creating a sense of community that is both inviting and heartwarming. Although, Malcolm can’t help but find their winter apparel humorous, considering the temperature is a mild 65 degrees. 

The town square is transformed into a winter wonderland, featuring a towering Christmas tree adorned with colorful ornaments and a cheerful holiday market bustling with activity. As Malcolm studies the historic architecture of the town, he realizes that it exudes a timeless charm that captures the essence of the holiday season. Well, it appears he was quick to judge this place. It’s no Westchester, but he wouldn’t expect a big city atmosphere in a small town hardly anyone has heard about.

Palm trees nearby sway gently in the breeze, their fronds adorned with twinkling lights. The balmy air carries the scent of saltwater mingled with the sweet aroma of holiday treats, creating a unique blend of Christmas cheer that has Malcolm craving saltwater taffy.

In this Floridian winter wonderland, the lights reflect the vibrant hues of the tropical surroundings, bringing a touch of seaside magic to the scene and creating a coastal holiday oasis. There’s a part of Malcolm that wonders if he has time to visit the beach on this trip.

The diner is just as quaint as the rest of the town. If Malcolm had a nickel for every time he thought of the word “quaint” when describing Pineville, he could retire early. The driver had insisted that it was against protocol to go in with him, and no amount of pressure or coercion could convince the man otherwise. So Malcolm is on his own while the driver goes to the bakery and gets something for the both of them.

The bell dings when the door opens and a blonde girl who can’t be more than twenty-two calls from behind the counter, “Have a seat anywhere, darlin’! Be right with ya!”

Malcolm refrains from grimacing as he scans the diner and sees that it’s quite crowded. Almost every diner has four or five bags of presents with them that are overflowing with tissue paper. The only safe area Malcolm can scope out is a deuce single booth near the back of the diner, and even that area isn’t completely free of people, but at least the seat behind it is empty. He has a seat so he can keep his eyes on the front door of the diner. A toddler screeches happily two booths down and one of the waitresses is cooing about how big the child has gotten while the parents beam proudly and revel in the attention. As he takes in his surroundings, it’s obvious that everyone here knows each other, save for the few out-of-towners who are visiting family members but quickly and easily getting friendly with the locals.

“Hiya, handsome!” A syrupy-sweet voice pulls Malcolm’s focus and he looks up to see the same waitress from behind the counter. She’s grinning and chomping on a piece of gum. Doesn’t anyone in this town realize how cliche they’re appearing? “What can I get for ya?”

“Well, I haven’t had a chance to look at the menu,” he replies, and hears someone scoff near him. He ignores it. “But I’ll start with a coffee.” He’s not spoiled enough by the city to think that this diner has any kind of coffee other than plain black, but he’s hopeful that there will be something he can add to it to make it more tolerable.

 “How would you like it?”  

Malcolm notices that the woman hasn’t written down his order, but hopes that she has a good memory. “With oat milk, please, and no sugar.”

“Sorry, honeybun, but we don’t have oat milk.”

“Oh. Almond milk is fine, then.”

The woman gives an amused smile. “You’re not from around here, are ya? We stopped stocking almond milk because nobody would order it.”

Malcolm waits for the rest of his brain to catch up and he has to refrain from making a sarcastic reply about how he has a different accent, so of course he’s not from around here. Even though that had probably been a rhetorical question. Apparently, he waits a beat too long because the waitress takes this opportunity to speak again.

“I love your accent, by the way! You sound like a prince or something.”

Or something, Malcolm thinks wryly. “Thank you. Do you have any creamer? Or regular milk?” He has to repress a shudder at the thought.

“We got creamer on the table there but I can bring ya some ‘regular’ milk so you have some choices. Sound good?” She’s teasing, and emphasizes this by winking at him. He hears another snicker somewhere nearby and feels himself bristle. 

“That’s fine, thank you,” he says stiffly. He waits until the waitress is gone before he dares a glance at the menu. It’s sticky, of course it is–what had he been expecting? His nose wrinkles despite himself and he hurriedly concludes that he can’t go wrong with a simple garden salad.

The waitress returns swiftly and Malcolm finds himself concerned when she doesn’t flinch at the hot coffee that sloshes onto her hand. 

“There ya are, sweetie,” she chirps. She takes the pen from behind her ear and poises it above her notepad. “What looks good?” Is she giving him flirtatious eyes?

“Erm… I’ll have the garden salad,” he replies, pointing at the picture to make sure that he’s being clear with his order.

“Ya sure ya don’t wanna order the special? It’s a slow-roast double-drenched in warm gravy. And don’t worry, there’s no MSG or any fancy preservatives. Everythin’s home-made.”

“As enticing as that sounds,” Malcolm begins, struggling to keep the sarcasm out of his tone, “I’m not that hungry. I’ll just have the salad, please.”

The waitress shrugs. “Suit yourself, pumpkin. All our produce is local, so it’s organic .”

Malcolm isn’t sure if this woman knows what ‘organic’ means… Okay, he needs to calm down, he knows that. But it’s been a long day and he’s not looking forward to ruining someone’s Christmas. He takes a deep breath and smiles on the exhale–a trick that Hoshi had taught him so it would appear natural.

“I’m looking forward to it.”

The waitress preens and there’s a hop to her to step as she walks back to the kitchen. Malcolm shakes his head and sips his coffee to see how much creamer it needs to salvage it. The liquid is lukewarm and ah, that’s why the waitress hadn’t flinched. He wrinkles his nose and can’t hold back a disgusted sound as he mutters “cold.” It’s not too loud, but the blonde man in front of him hears it because he turns around with an amused smirk.

“Usually it’s so piping hot that you have to wait a couple minutes for it to cool down,” the man says with a smug drawl. His blue eyes are twinkling. “Tammy must be on her own this mornin’.”

“It’s fine,” Malcolm mutters, feeling like a right muppet for giving Tammy the cold shoulder. Still…of course her name would be “Tammy.”

“Nah, no man should have to drink cold coffee. It just isn’t natural.”

Malcolm can’t help but smirk and raise an eyebrow. “I do enjoy the occasional iced coffee.”

The man wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. “Maybe in the summer. Maybe . But hot coffee is good for the soul.” He looks over at the counter and cups his hands over his mouth. “Tammy!”

Malcolm jumps slightly and feels his face heat up. “There’s no need-” He begins, mortified.

 But Tammy has already heard and perks her head up in their direction. She hurries over and smiles. 

“Yes?” She asks.

The man gestures to Malcolm, who is currently fighting the urge to sink under the table. 

“His coffee is cold,” the man says.

Tammy’s eyes widen and she gasps. “I am so sorry, sir! I completely forgot to put on a fresh pot. It’s been a busy morning, but that’s no excuse. Let me put a fresh pot on.”

Malcolm’s left hand digs into his knee underneath the table as his polite English nature overwhelms him and pushes back the New York personality he’d adapted over the years.

“No, really, I don’t need-”

But Tammy interrupts him. “No, sir, please. No one should wash a meal down with cold coffee. Even if it’s a salad. I’ll be right back, don’t you go anywhere.” And she scurries off again, yelling at one of the cooks about forgetting to keep her on track with the coffee. Malcolm can’t hear what the cook shouts back because he’s staring out of the window, willing himself to disappear. 

“Tammy takes pride in the coffee. It’s the best in town,” the man says, pulling Malcolm’s focus back to him. When their eyes meet, the man’s lips quirk up in a teasing smirk. “Salad, huh?”

If Malcolm had feathers, they would ruffle. “I’m not that hungry,” he defends weakly, realizing belatedly that he doesn’t owe this man an explanation.

The man shrugs and holds his hands up in surrender. “It’s always fresh.”

The best in town, I’m sure, Malcolm thinks ruefully. He feels the man’s eyes linger on him for a few moments, as though he’s trying to decide something, but he eventually nods once and turns back to his own table. 

Before Malcolm can replay the whole interaction in his head, Tammy returns with a fresh cup of coffee and manages to keep her hand safe as the steaming liquid sloshes over the rim again.

“There ya go! Piping hot, as it should be! Your salad will be out shortly.”

 “Thank you,” Malcolm says, and Tammy beams as she goes to help another table.

He takes a sip and the man across from him wasn’t kidding: it burns Malcolm’s tongue and he hisses through his teeth. But the taste isn’t too bad–it doesn’t taste burnt or like it’s come from a pot that hasn’t been washed in who knows how long. It’s rather pleasant, and he hums approvingly. 

When his salad arrives at his table, he notices how fresh and green the lettuce appears. His mouth waters as he reaches for the side of dressing, but before he can pour it, he realizes something that makes him groan inwardly. 

No tomatoes. 

Dare he bring this to Tammy’s attention? He wars with himself for a few minutes before the New York part of him wins, leaving the Englishman waving a white flag of surrender. As Tammy whizzes by him, he waves at her and waits for her to finish with another table. 

“Somethin’ wrong, hun?”

Malcolm gives his best self-deprecating smile and slumps his shoulders a little to appear less…pompous. 

“I’m sorry, but it appears that the tomatoes are missing.”

Tammy blinks at him, her smile fades, and Malcolm thinks with a cold horror that he’s finally crossed a line where Southern hospitality stops.  

“The what?” Tammy asks, but she just sounds lost instead of angry, and her eyes glaze over.

“The tomatoes,” Malcolm repeats, making sure it hadn’t been a rhetorical question.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand that word…”

“He means ‘tomatoes,’” the man across from him swoops in to save the day again, turning to lean over the back of the booth.

“Oh!” Recognition lights Tammy’s eyes and she laughs. “Sorry, doll, I didn’t understand your accent. I’m just all over the place today, ain’t I? Back in a jiff!” She swipes the salad at a speed that rivals Malcolm’s and he’s left blinking at the man across from him. 

“Thank you,” he offers, feeling like a broken record at this point with nothing to offer in return for the man’s help. 

The man smiles and waves him off. “Don’t mention it. Enjoy the salad, especially the tomatoes. They come from one of the local farms and the crop is especially tasty this year.”

 Malcolm desperately hopes that the farm in question isn’t the one he’s trying to buy.

Tammy returns with the salad and Malcolm’s appetite returns as he sees the ruby red tomato slices glistening on a bed of emerald leaves. He takes a bite and hums appreciatively. The compliment that this is better than any twenty-dollar New York salad is on the tip of the tongue, but he doubts it would mean much. If anything, they’d probably laugh at the “twenty-dollar” part. 

Just as Malcolm realizes that he hasn’t introduced himself to the man across from him, said man is paying his bill and leaving a generous tip. Malcolm hadn’t been trying to look, truly. The man tips his hat at Malcolm before taking his leave.

Feeling much better after the good meal, Malcolm pays the check and pauses as he puts his wallet away. Before he can change his mind, he pulls out a twenty and leaves it folded underneath the merchant’s copy of the receipt. He does feel bad that Tammy is working alone with all of these customers, and she did an excellent job, all things considered. As he opens the door, he hears Tammy call out a “Thank you so much, darlin’!” He blushes and nods briefly before hurrying out of the door.

When he gets back in the car, he sees a lot of eyes on him through the diner windows.

“How was your lunch, sir?” The driver asks.

“Excellent. And yours?”

“The same, sir. Your eclairs are warming here in the front seat. Would you like them with you?”

“Putting the heated seats to good use, I see,” Malcolm replies with an amused smirk.

The driver smiles. “No one else is using the passenger seat.”

Malcolm chuckles. “You can keep the pastries up there. I’ll get them when we arrive at the hotel.”

…Or the bed and breakfast. It’s a quaint brick house, bathed in the soft glow of Christmas lights that seem to dance in the wintry breeze. The lights are meticulously wrapped around the railings and columns of the front deck, casting a warm and inviting glow that extends to the entire exterior trimming of the house.

The charm of yesteryear radiates from every brick, as if the house itself has stepped out of a cherished holiday memory. The lights, carefully chosen in a medley of colors, twinkle like stars against the dusk of nightfall, creating an enchanting scene that speaks of timeless Christmas traditions.

It’s charmingly inviting and outrageous. 

“What happened to the hotel?” Malcolm asks, more to himself, but the driver answers anyway.

“They’re all booked up,” he explains. “Mr. Forrest had to book you a room at this inn earlier this morning. Only place left. And funnily enough, they only had one room left. Lucky find.”

‘No room left at the inn.’ Malcolm can see Forrest’s smirk and doesn’t know whether he wants to scream or laugh. Later on, he’s going to call every hotel in town and see if they’re really “all booked up.” 

“Indeed,” Malcolm replies, staring up at the bed and breakfast as though it were looming over him. His tone conveys no amusement whatsoever. Yes, he’s irritated, and why shouldn’t he be? He’d expected to be able to have a hotel room all to himself and the privacy that is included. At a bed and breakfast, he has a sneaking suspicion that the hosts will be thorough with their daily check-in’s and breakfast will be timely, but all guests will be expected to participate. 

The driver opens Malcolm’s door, holding the bag of pastries in his other hand. Malcolm smooths down his suit jacket and nods his gratitude as he takes the paper bag. Once he has his duffle bag in his other hand, he takes a deep breath and walks up the creaky wooden stairs. What a strange town: new and old beach houses, and then houses like this that just ooze old-timey Christmas.

A wreath, adorned with red bows and ornaments that are handmade, graces the front door. He knocks twice and hears a muffled, “Come on in!” When he opens the door, he sees a family of four playing a board game in the living room and a graying, rotund woman at a rolltop desk by the stairs on the other side of the room. On the wall, there’s even an old-fashioned phone that begins to ring.

“Welcome, make yourself at home!” The woman greets boisterously. “My name is Mrs. Birch.”

Malcolm’s ear rings and he represses a wince. “Good evening,” he replies softly. 

Check-in is quick and painless, although Malcolm gets an intuitive feeling that he needs to watch out for Mrs. Birch. She appears pleasant enough, but she was asking questions that even someone less private than Malcolm would be hesitant to answer. As he makes his way up the stairs, he makes a mental note to keep his secure documents in extra secure places. Well, he shouldn’t be here for too long, anyway.

The room exudes a comforting blend of vintage charm and modern amenities. The walls are adorned with floral wallpaper, casting a warm and inviting atmosphere that complements the cozy furnishings.

A sturdy wooden bed, adorned with a classic quilt and plump pillows, takes center stage, and Malcolm wonders whether he'll get a restful night’s sleep or a night of unending back pain. Soft, ambient lighting from bedside lamps and the glow of holiday-scented candles create a serene ambiance. He questions the safety of lit candles in an unoccupied room.

Antique furniture pieces add character, including a vintage writing desk near the window. Now that is something that Malcolm looks forward to using. A small sitting area with two comfortable armchairs provides a cozy nook for relaxation, complete with a throw blanket for added warmth.

“Subtle” holiday decorations, such as a miniature Christmas tree and festive garlands, enhance the room's festive atmosphere. The overdone air of it all amuses him only because he knows that Elizabeth is going to flip out. The window offers a picturesque view of Pineville's decorated streets, contributing to the overall charm of the bed and breakfast. He takes a picture with his phone and sends it to her.

The private bathroom, although compact, boasts modern fixtures and amenities. Soft, plush towels and holiday-scented toiletries are neatly arranged, inviting guests to unwind and indulge in a moment of luxury.

It all seems better than he’d expected, until the sound of cheering and banging of pots rings up from the first floor. His room must be right above the living room. Just when he thinks it’s over, the sound of loud, off-key singing and jingling bells. Unable to hide his curiosity, Malcolm whirls around and stands at the stairway railing, still holding his luggage. He sees the family of four with Mrs. Birch. 

“Excuse me,” Malcolm calls, trying his best to sound pleasant and not thoroughly irritated, “may I ask what all the fuss is about?” 

Mrs. Birch smiles up at him and bangs on a pot while the family continues to sing. “It’s our hourly countdown to Christmas!” 

“I beg your pardon? I’ve never heard of this tradition.”

“Oh, it’s a local one! We call it ‘Jingle Hour.’ Every hour, we all gather in the common area and sing classic Christmas carols with an extra dose of jingle bells.” 

An icy dread looms over Malcolm as his grip on the railing tightens. 

“Ah, I see, how lovely,” he lies through his teeth. “This is…hourly, you say?”

“Every hour! Including the sleeping ones. All guests have to participate.”

Oh, no. Absolutely not. He will sleep in the car. Mrs. Birch sees the look of horror on his face and wags a finger at him.

“Now, now, Mister Reed,” she chides with an evil twinkle in her eye, “all guests must participate or they void their reservation.”

She can’t be serious. Malcolm is violently warring within himself, torn between saying something scathing and clever or biting his tongue. And picturing himself having to possibly call his lawyer because that clause (pun definitely not intended) can’t possibly be legal.

Mrs. Birch lets out a laugh that sounds more like a cackle. “I’m just teasing! We would like all of our guests to participate, but it’s not mandatory.”

He should be ashamed of how fast relief warms him like a blanket. His grip loosens on the railing and his smile must look as strained as it feels.

“Ah, ha, good one.” Before he can get caught in more conversation, he retreats back to his room and closes the door, leaning against it and breathing like a man who has just fought for his life. 

The singing and bells start up again and Malcolm groans. His phone dings and he looks at the screen to see a text from Elizabeth:

“OMG I love it!! Lucky you!!”

The back of Malcolm’s head hits the door with a soft thump. “Just perfect.” If this were a movie, he’d have dropped his suitcase on a “whump” of music for a perfect button.

Chapter Text

The sun dips low over the horizon, casting a warm, otherworldly glow across Tucker's Twinkling Pines as the car approaches the rustic farmhouse. The entrance reminds Malcolm of some of the mansion entrances he’s seen: a fence, wrapped up in twinkling lights, lines each side of the driveway, and large arches glow with their own festive lights and garlands. The house itself stands as a picturesque embodiment of rustic charm and familial warmth. It boasts a classic red barn exterior with white trim, surrounded by acres of fertile land. A sturdy porch wraps around the front, adorned with rocking chairs that invite visitors to unwind and enjoy the tranquil scenery. Hanging flower baskets and seasonal wreaths add a touch of homely elegance, especially the fresh and real wreath hanging on the worn red door. 

A weathered barn stands nearby, its doors slightly ajar, revealing tools, equipment, and memories of years gone by. Surrounding the farmhouse, open fields stretch as far as the eye can see, occasionally interrupted by groves of various kinds of trees and other crops that Malcolm can’t quite make out.

The car pulls to a stop in front of the porch. Malcolm hesitates for a moment, contemplating the significance of the farm to the tight-knit community. He can’t imagine how reluctant he’d be if he knew for himself just how much the farm meant to everyone–he’d probably feign illness and go right back to New York, or have not even come here at all. 

The air carries a hint of warmth, even in the heart of winter, as the climate in Panama City plays its own version of the holiday season. Malcolm’s shoes crunch on the dirt and gravel mix and he hears a lamb bleating nearby. He can sense the rich history of the farm, a piece of land that seems to defy the typical climate of Florida, according to his own brief research into the farm’s history. He raps lightly on the weathered door, the anticipation of this meeting churning within him as the seconds tick by. The door creaks open, revealing a familiar, unsuspecting face. Malcolm's gaze meets the other man with a stern resolve, a professional façade masking an internal conflict, despite the fact that the floor has dropped right out from under him.

The man seems to recognize him, too, because his brow is furrowed in amused bewilderment as he opens the door a little wider.

“Can I help you?” He asks with a warm smile. He’s wearing faded dark jeans and a soft, black and red checkered flannel with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing golden skin covering defined muscles.

Of course I have to negotiate with a man who is the embodiment of Southern charm, Malcolm thinks ruefully, trying to keep his throat from going dry. He hadn’t noticed the details of the man in the diner because there was too much going on. But now that it’s just the two of them out here, Malcolm’s mind has taken obvious interest.

Stop it, he chastises, you’re here on important business.

If this man is going to mention their earlier small talk at the diner, Malcolm can’t be sure. And he hates being unsure. But he’s not going to be the first to bring it up. Besides, he wants to get this over with as fast as possible. He’s a man on a mission he wishes he wasn’t on. He clears his throat and extends his hand in a no-nonsense approach.

“Yes, my name is Malcolm Reed, and I’m here representing TrekSafe Security. Is Mr. Tucker here?”

The man’s eyes sparkle. “Which one?”

The question trips him up but he quickly recovers. “I… The owner of the farm.”

“Ah, that would be me, then. But Mr. Tucker is my father. You can call me Trip.”

There’s a brief pause before Trip laughs heartily and shakes his head. “I’ve always wanted to use that line. Pleased to meet you.” He grasps Malcolm’s hand in a firm grip.

That will be short-lived, Malcolm thinks ruefully. He drops the handshake after the polite amount of time has passed. 

“Mr. Tucker-”

“Trip.” His eyes are still shining.

Malcolm feels like using the man’s first name (what kind of name is “Trip,” anyway?) is a privilege he doesn’t deserve for what he’s about to do, so he ignores the correction. He takes a deep breath and puts on a polite smile. Better to rip the bandaid off swiftly.

“I've been sent to discuss the future of Tucker's Twinkling Pines,” he begins in a light tone. “TrekSafe Security believes there's a tremendous opportunity here–"

Trip's eyes narrow, a subtle furrow on his brow. His stance shifts from open and friendly to arms-crossed and feet planted firmly on the wood floor. "What kind of opportunity?”

Malcolm shifts on his feet, and grinds his teeth, acutely aware of the delicate balance in the conversation. "The company is willing to offer a substantial amount for the land. The plan is to develop a large-scale security training facility. There will also be a hub to provide security for commercial and individual needs. It's seen as a strategic move for TrekSafe."

Trip leans against the doorframe, his gaze fixed on Malcolm. "Substantial amount, huh? This farm's more than just a piece of land. It's the heart of this town, especially during Christmas. Tradition, community, and a whole lot of Christmas spirit—that's what Tucker's Twinkling Pines is about."

Malcolm nods, recognizing the gravity of Trip's words but unable to relate to them. Hoshi really should be the one to do this. "I understand the farm's importance to the community. That's why the company is willing to make a fair offer, ensuring everyone benefits."

Trip’s easy going demeanor is hanging on by a thread. “‘Substantial,’ and ‘fair.’ I’m hearing these words, but I don’t think you understand. This farm means more than dollars and cents. It's about tradition, joy, and bringing folks together during the holidays and all-year ‘round."

Malcolm sighs, aware of the weight of what’s at stake. Maybe if he takes a more personal approach… "I understand the sentimental value, Trip-”

“Mr. Tucker.”

Fair enough. “Mr. Tucker, but the company sees an opportunity for growth. I'm here to negotiate, find a solution that works for everyone."

Trip’s gaze is piercing. "Are we speaking the same language? You keep talking about how your company understands, but then all you do is offer a soulless solution.”

Malcolm’s own expression hardens, a twinge of remorse beneath his professional exterior. "Decisions like these are made at a higher level. It's nothing personal."

"Nothing personal? You're telling me you're just the messenger?"

A rush of relief floods through Malcolm. “Yes,” he replies with a whoosh of breath. Maybe he hasn’t completely botched this, after all. He remembers Hoshi’s advice to come from an empathetic perspective. “I can’t imagine how difficult this has to be for you, but I’m just the guy they sent to make sure everyone comes away from this happy. My job is to deliver the news, not decide its impact."

Trip's eyes flash with indignation, and Malcolm has reverted back to a stern expression, which shows no sign of faltering.

As the tension hangs in the air, it becomes apparent to Malcolm that this business encounter is more than a negotiation. It’s a clash of values, a collision between a man doing his job and another defending his piece of the world. 

"You're telling me this is just business?" Trip's voice grows louder, his Southern drawl laced with frustration.

Malcolm maintains his composure as his stomach sinks. There’s a hint of regret in his eyes. "It is, Mr. Tucker. I understand this farm means a lot to you, but I have a job to do."

Trip's irritation boils over, and he turns abruptly, disappearing into the farmhouse. Moments later, he re-emerges, a machete in hand. Malcolm raises an eyebrow, caught off guard but immediately taking a defensive stance.

"You think this is just business?" Trip brandishes the machete, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Well, darlin', where I come from, sometimes business involves a bit of old-fashioned negotiation." He gestures theatrically with the machete.

Malcolm's eyes widen, but he holds his ground. "Mr. Tucker, there's no need for threats. Let's keep this civil."

Trip grins, the machete now an accessory to his performance. "Civil? You're here to take away my livelihood, and you're talking about civility?"

Malcolm isn’t about to let things escalate. He’s a prime fighter, but he doesn’t want to have to resort to that. "Mr. Tucker, I'm not your enemy here. I'm just doing what I'm told."

The machete twirls in Trip's hand, adding an unintentional flair to the argument. "Well, maybe a little negotiation will spice things up."

Somewhere in a distant part of his mind, Malcolm appreciates the humor in the absurdity of the situation. But he won’t remember that part until days later. "Look, Mr. Tucker, I know you're passionate about this farm. Let's find a way to resolve this without any actual negotiations involving sharp objects."

Trip chuckles, the tension easing a notch. "You're a tough negotiator, Mr. Reed, I'll give you that." He respects the man’s commitment and the way he’s standing his ground.

But despite the understanding between the two men that has just been planted, the tension still lingers in the air. They both know that the other won’t give up. Malcolm is the first to break the silence.

“Mr. Tucker, I need your answer. Will you accept the financial compensation for your farm?”

Any light-heartedness in Trip’s demeanor evaporates as his eyes narrow again. 

“You brought cold, heartless lingo right back into the equation.” 

“As I said, this is nothing personal. The company understands-”

“No, the company doesn’t understand.” So far, Trip’s tone has had a levity to it even when he was frustrated. Now, however, there’s no levity to be found. Just pure contempt in his voice and written all over his face, too. “Your company will never understand. I’m sorry you had to come all this way for nothing, but I’m not selling.”

“If you could just give me a moment to-”

“To what? Try and convince me why I should sell? Don’t waste your breath. Get this through your thick skull: I will never. Ever. Sell this farm.”

With that, he slams the door. Malcolm feels his own indignation rise, even as he reminds himself that this was to be expected. Still, he can’t leave until he gets Mr. Tucker to sell. He knocks on the door insistently and almost clocks Mr. Tucker in the face with his momentum when the door swings open again.

“I said leave!” The door opens even wider and Malcolm sees the shotgun poised at the farmer’s side. “Now I asked you nicely, but I won’t ask again.” The shotgun is cocked.

There’s no way this man would shoot Malcolm just because he didn’t leave… Right? Honestly, Malcolm didn’t understand this culture, and he doesn’t think he ever will make sense of it. There’s no point in waiting to find out if the gun will actually be used, despite Malcolm’s rebellious nature just itching to stand there and test Mr. Tucker’s patience.

“I will be back again tomorrow and the next day, and the next, until you sell. And I must warn you that each time I have to return, the offer gets considerably lower,” he warns sternly.

Trip isn’t phased. He begins to raise the gun and step forward. “You get one warning shot.” In any other situation, Malcolm would suggest that Mr. Tucker should consider a career in security because of how menacing he can sound. 

Instead, he holds his hands up in surrender and backs away towards the car. Trip can’t help but give the man credit for being able to go down the steps backwards. He holds Mr. Reed’s gaze until the corporate suit is back in the car. He’d have held it longer but the windows are tinted. He waits until the car is out of the driveway before he uncocks the gun and goes back to dinner.

“I’m telling you, Hoshi, this whole town is full of lunatics!” He hisses lowly into the phone as he turns the bath faucet on.

“I’m sure it can’t be that bad.” Judging by the background noise and the current time, Malcolm guesses that Hoshi is walking to her favorite breakfast place in Tokyo.

“They have a tradition where the locals get up at every hour, even in the middle of the night, and sing carols at the top of their lungs! While ringing sleigh bells and banging on pots and pans!” He’s beginning to sound hysterical. “And you’re telling me it’s ‘not that bad.’ Has the whole world gone mad or is it just me who’s lost the plot?” 

There’s a long-suffering sigh on the other end of the line and Malcolm’s grip tightens. He is not exaggerating. 

“Okay, I’ll admit that the whole thing sounds crazy,” Hoshi begins, bulldozing over Malcolm’s sigh of relief, “but you need to play along.”

“To what end, Hoshi? I already told you that Mr. Tucker threatened me with a machete and then a shotgun. How am I supposed to win him over now?”

“Use your British charm and masculine wiles.” Oh, he can totally hear the smirk on her face.

He narrows his eyes as he checks the water temperature. “I highly doubt those will work on a Southern farmer in a small town in Florida .”

“You never know. Didn’t you also tell me that some of the houses were decorated for holidays other than Christmas?”

“Hoshi, I feel like you’re working against me.” He sounds like he’s speaking with a stubborn five year old.

“I’m just saying, don’t judge a book by its cover. We’re always talking about how people shouldn’t make assumptions about someone’s character just because they act a certain way, right? Well, it’s a two-way street. You don’t know what Mr. Tucker likes and doesn’t like.”

Malcolm groans. “I was with you until that last statement. Not to toot my own horn, but I was trained to read people, and I got a thorough read on Mr. Tucker today. You really should be handling this.”

“For someone who is always so certain in his training, you have so little faith in yourself when it comes to matters like this.”

“I’m not going to delve deeper into the meaning of that. Hoshi, really, what do I do next?”

There’s a pause, and Malcolm is sure that Hoshi is gnawing at her bottom lip in thought. A bell chimes on her end and the street sounds become muffled.

“Talk to Forrest about finding a solution that benefits both the farm and TrekSafe. Then when you see Mr. Tucker again tomorrow, apologize. I know it’s difficult for you, Mister Alpha big-man, but you’re going to have to take the more submissive role this time.”

“Where do these descriptive comparisons come from?” Malcolm asks with a frown. 

Hoshi ignores him. “Even if it gives you an ulcer, you have to prioritize maintaining a respectful tone when you talk to him.”

Malcolm sighs and turns off the tap, watching the steam rise from the water for a moment. 

“You’re right. I just… I get caught up in the moment and the indignation and then I just blunder the whole thing.”

“Try to do something that makes you feel mellow and relaxed before you see him again. Get yourself to the point where nothing he says can agitate you.”

“I’ll try my best.” He has no idea what he could do that would achieve that result. 

“Good. Now, take a bath with that lavender bath blend I gave you and forget about today.”

Malcolm chuckles, feeling his mood lighten marginally. “Thanks, Hoshi.”

“Always. ‘Night, Malcolm.”

Just as the call ends, Malcolm’s phone buzzes again with Maxwell Forrest glaring at him from the screen. Malcolm refrains from banging his head against the wall, certain that wouldn’t be the kind of noise Mrs. Birch would want to hear during Jingle Bell hour or whatever it’s called. He takes a deep breath before answering.

“Reed, here.”

“Reed! How’d it go with Tucker?”

“He refused to sell, sir.” The less details he gives, the better.

“I didn’t expect him to give it up so easily, so that’s no surprise. Well, give it another go tomorrow.”

“Sir, is there a way we could work something out where both parties walk away happy?”

Forrest snorts derisively. “As opposed to the two-hundred thousand we’re already offering for that place?”

“Yes. I don’t think a higher offer will change his mind. He said that the farm is worth more than any financial amount to him.”

“That bumbling…” Forrest hisses through his teeth and starts again. “Offer him four hundred and see if that changes his mind. If it doesn’t, do you have any bright ideas?”

“Whatever we do, it has to convince him to sell.”

“I’ll get on the phone with legal and see if we can dig something up.”

“That’s not what I meant-”

“Look, Malcolm,” Forrest snaps, “I’m not offering a dollar more for that waste of space. It’s barely enough land for the new facility as it is, but it’s the best we’ve got so far. If he won’t give it up for any amount of money, we’ll take it by force.”

Malcolm winces. “Sir-”

“Figure it out, Reed.”

The call ends, leaving Malcolm to stare at his reflection in the black screen. He feels a headache coming on and regrets ever signing up for this task.

The bath has just soothed over his headache when the sound of singing and other cacophonous noise roars from the first floor. Malcolm dunks his head underwater and wishes that he either had gills or enough lung capacity to stay under until the singing was done. Unfortunately, he can only hold out for two minutes before he’s resurfacing. He needs to work on his breath hold again; the office job has made him less efficient in his survival skills.

As he crawls under the covers, he finds with delighted surprise that the bed is quite comfortable. Not as comfortable as his own mattress, but it’s close, as loathe as he is to admit it. He turns off the bedside lamp and takes in the way the white fairy lights cast a warm, dream-like glow to the room. It causes an ache of nostalgia in his chest, and he doesn’t want to name it, but he knows. It reminds him of the nights in his childhood where he could enjoy the Christmas decorations before his father came home. 

He pushes the memory aside and for a childish moment, he wishes with everything in him that Mr. Tucker will just take the money and run. It will make this whole thing easier for everyone involved.

There’s the sound of people yelling and shots ringing in the air. Malcolm wakes with a jolt and reaches for his gun, looking around the room to get his bearings. In a few seconds, as the yelling morphs into out-of-tune singing, he remembers where he is and heaves a sigh of pure vexation. 

“Bloody hell,” he mutters, placing a hand on his chest. He can feel his heart pummeling his sternum so he takes a few deep breaths. Once his pulse is back to a normal rate, he glances at the digital clock on the nightstand and sighs again. Midnight. 

If asked about the Jingle Hour, he would hesitantly concede that the only saving grace is the fact that it only lasts about five minutes. But that’s five minutes more than what is socially acceptable, in his humble opinion. Now he’s wide awake and his thoughts are racing. He grabs a book from his bag and tries to focus on that. Thankfully, it isn’t long before he finds his eyelids growing heavy.

It’s an actual nightmare; he feels like he’s stuck in a hellish time loop. He jolts awake again and reaches for his gun, only it doesn’t take as long for his brain to catch up this time and recognize his location. He growls and muffles a scream into his pillow. Dare he look at the clock? 

One a.m.

“This is how I die.”

Chapter Text

The next morning, Malcolm is miserable. The Jingle Hour succeeded in waking him up every hour throughout the night, without fail. Today, he is going to invest in a good pair of earplugs and, just to be safe, noise-canceling headphones. He’d texted Hoshi of his tortuous night, giving her a brief reminder of the famous routine sleep deprivation torture in Guantanamo Bay. She simply replied, “ :( I know it sucks, but try to nap or something. Not in your room, obviously.”

So now Malcolm is waking up from a nap in the car and texting his driver to let him know it’s safe to return. Besides, he needs to talk to Mr. Tucker as soon as possible so the whole ordeal isn’t dragged out longer than necessary. He’s faced far worse confrontations, to be sure, but his nap hardly did any good.

They try the farm first, but a young woman named Lizzie brusquely informs Malcolm that he can find Mr. Tucker in town selling Christmas trees. His “thank you” is overpowered by the sound of the door slamming shut.

The town is just as busy in the morning as it was yesterday evening, but it isn’t difficult to spot the tent with a white-wash sign that reads “Tucker’s Christmas Trees” in bright red paint. It’s practically in the center of the town, and Malcolm briefly wonders why he hadn’t noticed it yesterday. Well, it doesn’t matter. 

His hands feel empty as he approaches the tent. Hoshi had said that he didn’t need to worry about bringing a peace offering just yet because that could possibly insult Mr. Tucker more, given that Malcolm had no idea what the man liked. He stands just outside of the tent and watches as Mr. Tucker converses passionately with a brother and sister who can’t be more than six and seven years old, respectively.

“Now, hold on just a minute,” Mr. Tucker states, taking the cash given to him by the children’s mother, “who told you that Santa isn’t real?” He does this incredible thing where he manages to both write out a receipt and listen intently to the children’s answers.

“Our friend at school,” the girl says.

“Yeah, her friend,” the boy contributes.

Mr. Tucker shares a knowing smile with the children’s mother as he puts the cash in the register. After he hands her the receipt, he walks around the counter and kneels to the children’s eye-level.

“I don’t want to cause any trouble between you and your friend,” he begins conspiratorially, “but how trustworthy is your friend?”

The girl takes a moment to consider this, her brow furrowing intently. “Well…”

“She’s not!” Her brother pipes up. “That’s the one who lied to you about her birthday party, right? And you didn’t get to go.”

The girl’s eyes grow stormy at the reminder. “Oh, yeah! I got her a real nice gift, too. It was ribbon for her pony’s mane. But she never got it because I never went to her party.”

“So it sounds to me like you can’t really trust what your friend says,” Mr. Tucker notes casually.

The siblings’ eyes light up as soon as they realize what he’s getting at, and they grin at each other. 

“I knew it!” They exclaim simultaneously.

“But wait,” the brother’s expression pinches in worry, “will Santa put us on the naughty list for doubting that he’s real?”

Mr. Tucker chuckles and ruffles the boy’s hair. “Not at all. He understands, so long as you don’t do anything mean to your friend.”

“Aww,” the girl whines, “I wanted to get back at her.”

A hearty laugh escapes from Mr. Tucker and he shakes his head. “That would get you on the naughty list, for sure. Promise me, no being mean to your friends, even if they lie to you. They’ll get what’s coming to them eventually.”

“Okay,” the girl concedes. She doesn’t look too happy about it, and Malcolm finds himself smiling in amusement at the whole interaction. 

“Come on,” their mother coaxes, “let’s get this tree home so your father can put it up.”

The children cheer and wave goodbye to Mr. Tucker, who waves in return and tells them to have a Merry Christmas. It isn’t until Mr. Tucker turns and faces him, causing his grin to fade, that Malcolm remembers why he’s here. He feels his own smile drop and he puts his hands in his pockets.

That familiar tension has returned, although Mr. Tucker seems less agitated than yesterday. 

“I reckon you’re not here to buy a tree,” he greets wryly.

“If I could take one on the flight back with me, I would consider it,” Malcolm replies genially. “They’re beautiful trees.”

Even though it’s obvious that Mr. Tucker is suspicious of any compliments, he does seem to preen a little, anyway.

“Grew ‘em on the farm. Well, the pines are from my brother’s farm in North Carolina. Both of our trees are ethically grown.”

“Really?” Malcolm can’t hide the surprise in his tone, and he’s relieved to see Mr. Tucker chuckle instead of getting defensive. 

“We may be a small town, but we aren’t ignorant or greedy.” His eyes land right onto Malcolm’s and peer into his very soul. “We appreciate the land we use, and we don’t go tearin’ down trees that we don’t plant ourselves.”

“Mr. Tucker, I've been giving this a lot of thought. I understand the importance of this farm to you and your family. To the whole town. That's why I'm here with a new offer – $400,000 for the property.”

Mr. Tucker stares at him with suspicion. “And why should I believe a word you say? After what your company's been doing, I don't trust you, Reed.”

Malcolm’s brow furrows in confusion. “What has my company been doing?”

“Buyin’ out local property and tearin’ it down to put new buildings in. And you don’t even hire locals–all the employees are transfers. That’s right, I did my research.”

“I will let you know that there have been a lot of attempts by other companies to tarnish the TrekSafe name. Companies will pay the news media quite a lot of money to publish rumors and lies.”

Mr. Tucker shakes his head and takes a few steps closer to Malcolm. He holds an intimidating figure, that’s for sure. But Malcolm isn’t easily subdued. 

“I’ve made some calls to former owners of the businesses that TrekSafe has so ‘generously’ bought out. I don’t believe everything I read at first glance.”

“So you’re a man of action,” Malcolm allows the admiration to seep into his tone.

“You could say that.”

Malcolm nods and looks at the rows of trees, taking a moment to organize his thoughts and decide his next move. He takes a deep breath and looks back at Mr. Tucker.

“Look, I know things have been complicated, and I wish I could change how it all started. I apologize for any offense yesterday. But this offer is genuine. It's the best I can do to help you salvage something from this situation.”

Mr. Tucker crosses his arms and widens his stance. “Salvage? What situation am I in, exactly? Do you know something I don’t?”

“As I mentioned yesterday, the climate is changing and it will get more difficult to keep up the quality of what your farm produces. It will be more costly.”

Mr. Tucker huffs out a laugh and shakes his head in disbelief. “You think throwing money at me–at this apparent problem–will make everything right? This farm means more to me than any amount you can offer. If it gets tough to keep up our usual crops, we’ll adapt. The farm has always adapted.”

Please don’t make me say it, Malcolm thinks, gritting his teeth.

“Mr. Tucker, I get it. I don’t know the first thing about how your farm works, but I can see the value that it holds. And I don’t want to see it dwindle away. Let it go in all of its glory and take the money. Use it for the community, if you want to, or don’t. My opinion doesn’t matter.”

“I won’t just sell my family's legacy for a paycheck.” Mr. Tucker’s volume is rising, but a quick scan of the area lets Malcolm know that no one else is aware yet.

He allows his sympathy to bleed through, finding the technique foreign and almost wrong. But Hoshi said this is what gets results. “I respect that, Mr. Tucker. But you need to understand – if you don't accept this offer, things will get messy. My boss made it clear that the company is considering more aggressive measures.”

That has the opposite effect of what Malcolm intended. Mr. Tucker’s face darkens with anger and he steps into Malcolm’s personal space. His voice is low when he asks, “Aggressive measures? What does that mean?”

Malcolm has to choose his next words carefully, but without revealing too much. 

“They mentioned the possibility of taking the farm by force if we can't reach an agreement. I don't want it to come to that.”

Exasperation flashes in Mr. Tucker’s expression. “So, what? You're here to threaten me now? So much for all that talk about your company being understanding.”

“No, Mr. Tucker,” Malcolm replies urgently, “I'm here to find a solution that avoids any harm or conflict. I'm offering you a fair deal, but if you refuse, I can't guarantee what will happen next.” He visibly winces as he realizes that what he’s just said sounds like a threat.

“This may come as a surprise to you, Mr. Reed, but money doesn't fix everything.”

“No, but it can spare a lot of headache and heartbreak.”

“It’s the cause of heartbreak!”

A few heads turn in their direction and Mr. Tucker clears his throat. 

Knowing that this is the moment of truth, Malcolm pours all of his understanding into his tone.

“I realize that, Mr. Tucker. But I don’t know what else to tell you. It’s the money, or force.”

Maybe he doesn’t understand as well as he thinks, because Mr. Tucker’s eyes darken and he steps back, folding his arms across his chest.

“Then you’ll have to take the farm from my cold, dead hands.”

Malcolm’s jaw tightens and he feels his teeth grind. Okay, so this is happening. He truly pities Mr. Tucker for the kind of ringer he’s going to be put through. A megacorporation against one man will not end well. This isn’t a movie where the good guy always wins. But Malcolm doesn’t say any of this to Mr. Tucker. Instead, he nods once and turns to walk away.

“Y’know somethin’, Mr. Reed?”

Mr. Tucker’s voice makes Malcolm pause and turn around.

“You say that you understand and that you feel bad for havin’ to do all this… If that’s the case, I’d look into working for another company. This one clearly doesn’t care about you.”

Before he can come up with a defense, Mr. Tucker has already turned away and started helping another family with a Christmas tree.

He enters his room with a sigh. Malcolm doesn’t want to tell Forrest what Mr. Tucker’s exact words were regarding taking the farm. He thinks of a way to sort of gloss over it and dials his boss’s number.

“Forrest,” the gruff voice answers.

“It’s Reed, sir. Mr. Tucker still isn’t biting.”

There’s an irritated sigh on the other end. “Alright, I’ll get legal on it. You need to stay there until this deal closes.”

An indignant sound escapes Malcolm. “I- What? Mr. Forrest, with all due respect, I’ve done my part-”

“And you failed.” The matter-of-fact tone doesn’t lessen the sting. “Play the diplomat as best you can and I’ll see if I can pull Hoshi from her case. Besides, it won’t do us any good to have T’Pol down there by herself. If you’ve ticked Mr. Tucker off, imagine how those two’ll butt heads.”

Honestly, Malcolm isn't surprised that T’Pol is going to be the one on the case. But that means that Malcolm will definitely have to attend the board meetings that will inevitably happen.

“Alright, sir,” Malcolm relents, knowing it was a losing battle, anyway.

The line goes dead and Malcolm sighs, looking around the room and realizing that the decor is actually helping him feel warm. Warmer than his impersonal office ever could, especially with the miserable task he has to continue. 

“Like there’s actual Christmas magic in this house,” he mutters with a scoff.

But something possesses him and before he knows it, he’s grabbing his coat and walking out the door. He needs to see Mr. Tucker again and warn him. It doesn’t make any sense as to why he would be on Mr. Tucker’s side, but that kind of thinking never crosses his mind as he urges the driver to hurry back to the tree tent.

Chapter Text

He’s walking through the long rows of trees but it’s difficult to see through them. Calling out for Mr. Tucker risks causing a scene, and that’s the last thing he wants. A blur of blonde and black-and-red appears in the corner of his eye, and he instinctively chases after it. As he moves, he’s aware of a couple trying to take down a tree from one of the rows. It all happens so fast and Malcolm just moves automatically:

There’s a startled cry from the woman as the tree slips from her grasp, and the dark-haired man on the other side loses his balance as the heavier tree outweighs his strength. The groaning evergreen begins toppling towards an unaware toddler in a velvet red dress. As he whirls in the child’s direction, he hears Mr.Tucker’s voice somewhere behind him shouting, “Travis!” and another voice, sounding a bit younger, replies, “Chloe!”

He sweeps the girl up in his arms and darts out of the tree’s path, using his body as a shield and feeling a heavy branch smack him right on his spine. The force knocks him down sooner than he’d planned, but he manages to roll with the momentum, making sure the girl is protected the whole time.

And in the blink of an eye, it’s all over. Malcolm is curled around the child and checking to make sure she isn’t injured, and he can’t help a huff of laughter when she just babbles happily and holds a pebble up to his face.

“That’s a pretty pebble,” he acknowledges, voice strained with pain. He’s breathing heavily from the exertion but it isn’t long before he catches his breath.

“Chloe!” The woman who had lost her grip on the tree rushes over and takes the child from his arms, holding her close. “My baby! Are you okay?” She turns back to Malcolm with tears in her eyes. “Thank you! You saved her!”

The dark-haired man runs up to them and embraces his wife and daughter. His expression hasn’t quite shifted away from terrified, but that’s to be expected. It is going to take some time for the shock and terror to wear off.

Mr. Tucker and another young man–the one who’d shouted the girl’s name, Malcolm deduces–have also run over. 

“Is everyone alright?” The young man asks, eyes wide with distress.

The woman turns to him and nods enthusiastically.

“She’s okay! Chloe’s okay. This man saved her!”

“You came out of nowhere,” the husband says. “Like her guardian angel. I can’t thank you enough.”

“What happened?” Mr. Tucker asks, his eyes darting around at everyone. He stops at the young man next to him. “Travis, did you see what happened?

Travis shakes his head and shrugs helplessly.

“We were trying to get the tree down, but my grip slipped and I couldn’t catch it,” the woman explains frantically.

“It started pulling me down before I could get my balance, but it was too late and it fell out of my hands,” her husband continues, holding out his hands like they had betrayed him. 

“But you saved her! You saved our baby girl.” The woman lets out a sob and embraces Malcolm in a tight embrace.

He stills at the unexpected contact but no one else seems to notice–too wrapped up in their elation that Chloe is okay.

“That’s my niece,” Travis tells Malcolm, holding out his hand. When Malcolm shakes it, he’s pulled into another embrace, but this is one-armed and brief with three pats on his back. He tries to hide his wince as his injury is aggravated–he doesn’t want to be rude, but it is growing quite painful.

“Thank you,” Travis says, voice heavy with gratitude.

“I’m glad I was there to help,” Malcolm replies, looking over at Chloe. He smiles fondly at the child, blissfully unaware that she’d almost been in a horrible accident. Big brown eyes meet his gaze and she gives Malcolm a one-toothed grin as she proudly presents her pebble again. She makes a determined exclamation, trying to say something.

“This man saved you, Chloe,” her mother explains. Chloe draws a fist, enclosing the pebble, and winds her arm back, pausing for a moment before she thrusts her arm back down and opens her palm. Her babbling is even more determined and rather pointed as she looks at Malcolm.

“I think she wants you to have the pebble,” Travis surmises, smiling in amusement.

“Oh, uh…” Malcolm worries that if he takes the pebble away, Chloe might start screaming. Other than his sister and a few cousins, Malcolm didn’t have much experience with infants or toddlers, so this was uncharted territory. All he knows is that he’d feel awful if the child started to cry. But everyone is looking at him expectantly, and Chloe’s eyebrows are drawing together in a frown, so he needs to move fast.

“Thank you. That’s very kind of you,” he says, pitching his voice a note higher to appear more friendly. He gently takes the pebble and is relieved when Chloe smiles widely and waves at him. 

The others laugh with him and he notices that Mr. Tucker is looking at him with an odd, but not negative, look on his face. As though he’s admiring Malcolm but isn’t sure how he feels about it. 

“Is there anything we can do?” Chloe’s father begins, but Malcolm waves his hand dismissively.

“No, please, I’m happy she’s alright.”

“But-” 

“Truly, all that matters is that she’s out of harm’s way.” Malcolm smiles genuinely.

Once the Mayweathers have finished their purchase and Malcolm waves a last goodbye to Chloe, Travis turns to him and shakes his head.

“I told my brother to let me and Trip handle the tree, but he didn’t listen. Hopefully this near-miss gave him some wisdom, as terrifying as it was.” Travis holds out his and squeezes firmly when Malcolm grips it. “I’m Travis, by the way. I work with Trip when the season gets too busy for him and he can’t handle it all by himself.” An inside joke, Malcolm figures when he sees Trip scoff in friendly amusement. “Thank you again. Wait…I just realized that you never said your name.”

Mr. Tucker’s fond expression changes into a nervous one as he rubs the back of his neck and clears his throat.

Malcolm tears his gaze away and focuses on Travis. “Malcolm Reed.”

Travis’s eyes widen and the grin that slowly spreads across his lips gives Malcolm the impression that this isn’t his first time hearing that name.

“Is that the-” Travis points to Malcolm with his free hand as he looks to Mr. Tucker.

“Uh, yeah,” Mr. Tucker mutters, his cheeks growing a slight pink. “That’s him.”

Travis laughs and clasps his free hand over Malcolm’s, giving it another squeeze before removing his hand. “Listen, don’t be too mad at Trip for telling me about you. He had to vent to someone.”

The fact that Travis hasn’t threatened him leaves Malcolm feeling uncertain. If Mr. Tucker has vented to Travis, then he obviously knows why Malcolm is here.

“Did he really bring out the machete and the shotgun?” Travis asks, eyes wide with intrigue.

“He did,” Malcolm affirms, and Travis laughs in delight. 

“We found that machete in the woods last year. I didn’t think it would still be in one piece.”

“I know how to restore weapons,” Mr. Tucker states, sounding offended. “What kinda Floridian do you take me for?”

Travis chuckles and clasps his hand on Mr. Tucker’s shoulder. Then he looks back at Malcolm, still smiling. “It was nice to meet you, Malcolm.”

Malcolm raises an eyebrow and gives Mr. Tucker a wry look before focusing back on Travis. 

“Well, at least someone thinks so.” His tone is teasing and his eyes are bright with mirth. In the corner of his eye, he sees Mr. Tucker’s posture relax and his lips curve into a barely-there smile.

“Hey, you saved my niece’s life,” Travis explains. “I can still hate your guts for trying to take the farm away, but I can’t deny that I’m forever grateful to you.”

A customer calls to them and Travis straightens up. “Duty calls! See you around, Malcolm.” He gives Malcolm a parting pat on the back and Trip doesn’t miss the way Malcolm winces in pain.

“You okay?” He asks, eyeing the British man for any cracks in his composure.

“Yes,” Malcolm replies too quickly. He’s holding himself oddly straight with his chest out as though he’s trying to edge away from something.

“You’re injured.” 

Malcolm bristles, even though Mr. Tucker’s tone had only been matter-of-fact.

“Nothing some paracetamol can’t fix.”

Mr. Tucker raises an eyebrow. “Para-what? You mean Tylenol?”

“I brought some paracetamol with me. It’s stronger than Tylenol.”

Trip doesn’t want to start an argument on painkillers, so he ignores that comment. 

“I really think you should see a doctor. There’s a clinic not two stores down.” He points to the row of businesses across the road behind Malcolm. 

Malcolm twists around to glance over his shoulder but the movement sends a shooting pain up his spine. He hisses through his teeth and clenches his hands into fists. 

“Really, I’m fine.” But then he becomes aware of something warm and thick running down his back. He reaches behind himself and feels ripped fabric and a sting on his skin. When he brings his hand back to look at it, he sees a small amount of blood on his fingers. Mr. Tucker’s eyes widen minutely.

“That don’t look ‘fine,’” he comments dryly. “Come on, at least let me walk you over there.”

Malcolm doesn’t know why the man is so insistent on helping him–he owes Malcolm nothing, and he isn’t the cause of Malcolm’s injury. When his eyes take in the trees, it all clicks.

“I’m not going to sue you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Malcolm assures, although the bitterness in his tone doesn’t make him sound convincing. 

Mr. Tucker looks offended and bewildered. “I wasn’t- I just want to make sure you make it across the road in one piece! I’ve had a similar back injury like yours, and it’s better to have another person with you to make sure you’re okay.”

Ah, then Malcolm misread the situation once again. “I see. Well, lead the way.”

He’s able to keep pace with Mr. Tucker, although the pain is considerably worse by the time they reach the clinic door. A large sign reads CLOSED and informs them that the office closed just fifteen minutes earlier.

“Just missed ‘em,” Mr. Tucker mutters. He looks at Malcolm and takes a breath. “Well, I can patch ya up.”

At that, Malcolm’s face pales and his body goes rigid. “What?”

Mr. Tucker shrugs. “The wound doesn’t look too deep. I’ll take a look at it and if it needs stitches, you’ll just have to go to the hospital.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you told me that you would be able to stitch me up.” The comment is sarcastic, but Mr. Tucker just grins impishly. 

“I can put a few doctors to shame with my suture technique.”

Malcolm has nothing to say about that tidbit of intriguing yet disconcerting information, so he wordlessly follows the farmer back to the tree tent. There’s another section that’s completely tented off, and Malcolm sees that it’s a makeshift breakroom. But they’ll have more privacy here, and he’s grateful that the whole town won’t be staring at him.

“Alright, take your shirt off.”

It’s said casually but Malcolm still freezes, his face burning red. “What?” He must not come across as too intelligent, but Mr. Tucker has managed to make him lose his composure more often and in less time than anyone else Malcolm has ever met. And he’s going to revisit that fact later. 

“I can’t see the wound if your shirt’s in the way. I can turn around, if you-”

“No,” Malcolm bites out, willing himself to act natural. He pulls his shirt off too quickly and too roughly, causing friction between the fabric and the wound in a burn that doesn’t go away. He sucks in a sharp breath and balls the ruined shirt up, holding it in his lap as he sits down in a metal lawn chair. 

Mr. Tucker steps closer and hums thoughtfully. 

“How does it look?” Malcolm asks with trepidation.

“Not too bad. It’s long, but it’s not ugly and it’s not deep. The bruising’s not too pretty, though, and I’m sure it’ll give you a hard time for a few weeks.”

Malcolm can’t hold back the fond amusement in his voice as he says, “You sound like a doctor. Do you take insurance?”

Mr. Tucker chuckles and then Malcolm feels a cold sting. He arches away from the touch.

“Sorry,” Mr. Tucker murmurs, dabbing the wound with a saline-soaked cotton pad. He runs the cotton pad lightly along the cut, knowing that the bruising is so deep that Malcolm will be able to feel it no matter how gentle he is. 

“S’alright,” Malcolm mutters, shifting back to a more comfortable position.

The moment is tense but there’s also a mood of camaraderie. However, Malcolm’s so busy trying not to overthink everything that he almost misses Mr. Tucker’s warning about getting in his personal space. Before Malcolm can ask him to clarify, Mr. Tucker’s arms are wrapped around him at as much of a respectable distance as he can manage, considering the situation, and a sterile gauze is being placed along his chest. 

“I don’t have any bandaids long enough to cover the whole thing, so I’ll have to use gauze. Hope that’s okay,” Mr. Tucker explains. 

“It’s fine,” Malcolm replies, grateful that his tone doesn’t come across as shaky as he feels. 

The gauze is wrapped around him a few more times and he’s still frozen in place, trying not to move a muscle. He’s also so wrapped up in trying not to overthink everything that it’s all over quicker than he expected. The burning pain has disappeared and at some point before the gauze, Mr. Tucker must have put ointment on the cut. 

“How’s that feel? Try not to bend or twist more than you have to. Don’t want the gauze to rip.”

Malcolm moves his torso and rolls his shoulders. The bruise is still getting aggravated whenever he moves, but the burning is gone and the gauze will make for a good barrier between his skin and his shirt.  

“Much better, thank you.” He can’t help a teasing smirk as he looks back at Mr. Tucker. “Did you ever consider a career in medicine? You have a good bedside manner, and I’m your enemy.”

Mr. Tucker chuckles and shakes his head, putting the first aid kit away. “I considered it, but only briefly. I’m more into tending to plants and animals. And you’re not my enemy, Mister Reed. More like an…adversary. Or an obstacle I have to get through.”

Malcolm chuckles at the comparison but his humor fades when he remembers why he’s here. 

“Mr. Tucker, I came back because I wanted to warn you. The company is bringing in a lawyer from their legal team, and she’s a force to be reckoned with.”

Mr. Tucker eyes Malcolm skeptically, his suspicion evident. "Why the sudden change of heart, Mr. Reed? Last I checked, you were on their payroll."

Malcolm sighs, a conflicted expression on his face. "I've seen the lengths they'll go to, and it's not right. I may work for them, but that doesn't mean I agree with everything. Your farm shouldn't be a casualty."

Crossing his arms, Mr. Tucker remains cautious. "So, what's your angle in all this? Why bother warning me?"

Malcolm hesitates, choosing his words carefully. And, honestly, he’s reflecting on the answer for himself. Why is he warning Mr. Tucker? 

“Call it a personal decision. I can't stand by and watch injustices unfold, even if it means going against my employer. Consider it a rare act of decency in a cutthroat business."

That’s not the entire reason, but Malcolm won’t share more. Somehow, some way, Mr. Tucker has charmed his way to Malcolm’s good side. And Malcolm has a sneaking suspicion that it won’t be easy to shake him off. 

Mr. Tucker studies Malcolm, skepticism lingering. "Decency from the enemy? I'm not sure if I should be grateful or more suspicious."

Malcolm meets his gaze earnestly. "Gratitude isn't necessary. Just be prepared. This lawyer is a formidable opponent, and I thought you deserved a fair heads-up, even if we're on opposite sides of this battle."

Mr. Tucker’s eyebrows raise and he huffs an amused laugh. 

“There’s that security training coming out.”

“The lingo tends to come out when I’m determined,” Malcolm replies, somewhat sheepishly. 

There’s a weighted moment where Mr. Tucker just scrutinizes him, arms still crossed over his chest, and Malcolm can’t help but feel curious as to what the other man is deciphering about him. Finally, Mr. Tucker’s guard drops and his arms come to rest at his sides. 

“You can call me Trip,” he says. 

Malcolm tries not to let his surprised reaction be so obvious, but his higher-pitched “Really?” gives him away. 

Trip grins in a devious and—is he flirting?—way before replying, “Well, I saw ya without your shirt off, so I think we’re on a first name basis now.” 

After his brain takes a few seconds to come back online, Malcolm takes a quiet deep breath and smiles on the exhale, only the smile comes more naturally than he’d expected, what with all of his nerves scattering about like tv static. 

“Well then, Trip,” he says, trying out the name and seeing how it feels on his tongue (it feels a bit odd and almost disrespectful while simultaneously feeling good and right), “then I suppose it’s only fair if you call me Malcolm.”

He can’t possibly be imagining the way Trip’s grin widens. 

Chapter Text

“It’s like a romantic movie!” Hoshi says after Malcolm tells her what happened at the tree farm earlier that afternoon. “The dashing hero gets tended to by the man he has his eye on.”

“I do not have my eye on him!” Malcolm argues incredulously.

“Sure you don’t. I bet you don’t dream of his chocolate brown eyes.”

“I know what you’re doing, and I’ll take the bait just to have the opportunity to tell you that you’re wrong. His eyes are blue.”

Hoshi laughs brightly and Malcolm smiles.

“So what are you gonna do until T’Pol gets there?” Hoshi asks.

“Before I left, Trip mentioned something about getting the mayor involved. I’m going to try and talk him out of it.”

“Why? Sounds to me like that would make the whole process go faster, which would let you get back to New York faster.”

“The mayor could be a problem. An extra wrench in the plan.”

“Are you scared that including the mayor will be the ace up Trip’s sleeve?” Hoshi teases.

Malcolm bristles. “That’s not funny, Hoshi. Do you know how furious Forrest will be if I lose this? I could get demoted, or fired-“

Hoshi gasps dramatically. “Or even worse: you could get put back in the field, where you’ve told me before you feel the most satisfied.”

That shuts Malcolm up and puts him right back in his own head. It’s true that he’s complained to Hoshi before that he misses field work, but most of the time that was when alcohol blurred his senses and softened the chain on his inhibitions. And that thought makes him realize that he has perhaps locked up the part of himself that longs for the past. Is he just lying to himself? Burying his longing for field work under the indulgence of a hefty salary and luxurious living?

Hoshi’s voice has lost all teasing and is soft when she asks, “Malcolm?”

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair as he begins to pace the bedroom. “Maybe you’re right, Hoshi, but I’m not a failure. I will not fail at this.”

“You wouldn’t be a failure if this doesn’t work out in the company’s favor. There’s plenty of other land that you can find, and it’ll be even better than this farm. But that’s only if this one doesn’t work out.”

“I appreciate your optimism, Hoshi, I really do. But could you tone it down a bit tonight? I have a headache.” Malcolm pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I can never tone down my optimism.” That’s not entirely true: Hoshi has a way of seeing things realistically instead of idealistically when it’s called for, and Malcolm admires her for that talent. He’s just always seen himself as a realist every day, no matter what; although most people would call him a pessimist.

His phone vibrates and he pulls it away from his ear to look at the text message. He frowns at the message from Forrest and then puts the phone back to his ear.

“Just got a text from Forrest. T’Pol will be here tomorrow at eight a.m.”

“Bright and early, of course,” Hoshi says, not bothering to hide her amused smile. It’s clearly evident in her tone: she’s laughing at his misfortune.

“You can be so cruel.”

“See, when you say things so dryly like that, I can never tell if you’re being serious or trying to be funny.”

Malcolm snorts indignantly. “Excuse you, but I am extremely funny when I want to be.”

“Yeah, yeah. Enjoy yourself in the morning.”

Sure enough, T’Pol arrives at the diner at precisely 8 A.M. Malcolm is nursing a coffee when he sees a familiar figure get out of a company car, striking and sharp as usual; and that’s not a description of the car. The bell above the door chimes cheerfully, a contrast to the austere figure of the woman in the doorway. She takes off her sunglasses to survey her surroundings and raises a slim eyebrow when she finds her mark.

It really is a shame that T’Pol isn’t in field work, Malcolm thinks.

“Mr. Reed,” T’Pol greets as she sits down in the booth across from him. The vinyl makes a crude sound under the new weight, causing T’Pol to turn her judgemental brow to the booth. Malcolm expertly covers a chuckle under a cough and quickly gets down to business.

“Ms. T’Pol. How was your flight?”

“As decent as can be expected on the company jet.”

Malcolm blinks. What? She’d been able to fly down using the- No matter. He mentally smoothes his ruffled feathers and nods. Before he can say anything else, however, Tammy makes her way over to their table.

“Welcome! What can I get for ya?” She chirps.

“I will have a coffee. Black,” T’Pol replies.

“Ya sure you don’t want any almond or oat milk?” Tammy teases, winking at Malcolm.

The joke goes over T’Pol’s head. “No. I checked your menu online and noticed that you don’t have any. Black coffee is fine.”

“They have creamer and ‘regular’ milk,” Malcolm says helpfully, casting a cheeky smile Tammy’s way.

Tammy giggles and writes down their drink orders. “I know what you like already, sugar. But no sugar for your coffee.” She winks again and heads back to the kitchen.

Malcolm doesn’t realize he’s smiling until he looks back at T’Pol, who is giving him a look that would be amused, if he didn’t know better.

“I see you’ve become one with the locals already,” she says wryly.

“Yes, well, one must blend in after a while.”

T’Pol just hums and opens her briefcase. “Forrest has filled me in on his expectations and the challenges you are facing, but I would like to hear what your experience has been. If the waitress hadn’t left, I’d have ordered already. Don’t begin your explanation just yet, I don’t want to be interrupted.”

“You know what you want already?” Malcolm shouldn’t be surprised.

“Yes,” T’Pol replies easily. “I want to be as time-efficient as possible, so I came prepared with my order. I hope you’ve done the same.”

“Uh… Yes, of course. I’m just having my usual.”

“Oh!” Tammy exclaims as she places the drinks on the table. “Well, I already know what you’ll be having, sweetie.” She looks over at T’Pol. “And what would you like?”

“I will have the garden salad.”

Tammy just stares at T’Pol for a moment longer than is considered polite, and then she turns her amused glance over at Malcolm.

“A woman after your own heart, huh?” Her eyes are sparkling with mirth.

“Uh-”

“We are work colleagues,” T’Pol interjects mildly.

Tammy is obviously finding T’Pol to be a buzzkill, but she maintains a polite demeanor as she nods and makes her way over to another table.

Once they have their food, Malcolm doesn’t know what possesses him to mention that the vegetables are all locally grown.

“I’m quite certain that the tomatoes are grown at the Tucker farm,” Malcolm says. “I don’t know how they do it this time of year, but the tomatoes have been fresh every time I order the salad.” He leaves out the fact that he’s been here everyday for lunch, and sometimes breakfast.

T’Pol eyes him too knowingly but says nothing. “A greenhouse, perhaps. Now, tell me about the obstacles you’re facing with Mr. Tucker.”

Chapter Text

It only takes about twenty minutes, with pauses to take bites of food and finish them politely, for Malcolm to relay everything to T’Pol. She takes notes throughout the conversation but Malcolm knows that she’s keeping up with him. 

“Oh, Mr. Tucker did mention possibly getting the mayor involved,” he adds as Tammy drops off the check. He notices the way her eyebrow raises before she goes to help another customer. Well, now Tammy knows a bit more about his reason for being in this town. Wonderful.

“Mr. Tucker sounds like a formidable opponent,” T’Pol comments dryly. 

Malcolm chuckles at her sense of humor. “He brought out a shotgun the first time I met him.”

“Did you pull your own weapon?” She asks.

That makes Malcolm snort softly. “Of course not.”

T’Pol’s eyes glitter mirthfully. “Your office job has made you soft.”

Malcolm shakes his head and smiles wryly. “Maybe. But Hoshi also told me to be nice to Mr. Tucker. That it would help him warm up to me and the whole idea of selling the farm.”

“And did it?”

“Of course not.”

They share a small smile and Malcolm pays the check with the company card. As they stand up, Malcolm pauses while T’Pol makes her way over to the door. Without thinking too much about it, he gets out a few twenties and tucks it under the receipt. 

He makes his way over to T’Pol and stands out of the way as Mrs. Birch walks through the door. She sits at a corner table labeled “Carry Out” and waves to him. He nods respectfully and then watches for Tammy to pick up the receipt to make sure that she gets it. He can see the moment she finds it, and he looks away before he can catch her eye. Just as he’s about to walk out the door with T’Pol, she turns to him. 

“I think I know what direction to go in with Mr. Tucker, but let me go over the case and I’ll get back to you. Let’s meet around 2 o’clock this afternoon.”

Malcolm suppresses a wince when he sees Mrs. Birch perk up. Damn, she’s heard that. It’s not that Malcolm is keeping his reason for being here a secret, but he would really prefer if word didn’t spread around. Then again, it is a small town, so he shouldn’t be surprised. 

A couple hours later, Malcolm finds himself back at the tree tent waiting for Mr. Tucker to finish with a customer. When he’s waved over, he can’t help feeling like he’s some sort of double agent. 

“The lawyer came in today. I met with her this morning,” he says without preamble. 

That catches Mr. Tucker’s full attention, although he’s eyeing Malcolm with a wry expression. 

“Thanks for the warning,” he says, but it sounds more like an uncertain question. 

Malcolm can only nod, wondering why he’s suddenly at a loss for words. He puts his hands in his pockets and mentally fortifies himself. 

“I’m sorry it had to come to this, Mr. Tucker,” he says honestly. For the first time in a long time since his training, Malcolm can’t decipher the other man’s expression. 

“It’s Trip.”

Malcolm blinks. “Pardon?”

“It’s Trip, remember? I asked you to call me Trip.” His expression is cautious but his light blue eyes are sparkling. 

If that’s supposed to make Malcolm feel more comfortable, it does the exact opposite. He feels his shoulders tense. 

“I…don’t know if I feel comfortable with that,” he replies softly, honestly. 

Maybe honesty isn’t always the best policy , he thinks as he takes in Mr. Tucker’s expression. The man looks offended, but not angry.

“I don’t know what I’ve done to make you-“

Malcolm nips that train of thought in the bud. “It’s not you,” he hurriedly assures. “It’s nothing you’ve done. Or, well, perhaps it is. You’re a decent man, and I’d hate to see you get railroaded by T’Pol. The lawyer. And possibly more, if you get the mayor involved. And I have played a major role in all that’s happening to you. I don’t believe I’ve earned the right to be more familiar with you.”

Mr. Tucker chuckles, seeming placated by the explanation, but his smile is unsure. “I appreciate that, but I think I can handle my own. And maybe I’m okay with us being more familiar with each other.”

Malcolm feels his face warm. “I didn’t mean to insult you or insinuate that you can’t handle yourself.” He doesn’t acknowledge Trip’s other statement because his resolve might crack. 

“Malcolm,” Mr. Tucker starts, but pauses. “Can I call you Malcolm?”

He shouldn’t, but Malcolm likes the way his name sounds in Mr. Tucker’s voice. It sounds warm, like it’s not demanding anything from him. So, he nods. 

“Malcolm,” Mr. Tucker continues, “has anyone ever told you that you’re a bit uptight?” 

Malcolm pauses, a small frown tugging at the corners of his mouth before it softens into a chuckle. Normally, he would bristle at being called "uptight." It’s a word he’s heard far too often, especially when people don’t understand his need for order and structure. Back home, it often felt like a criticism, a reminder that he didn’t quite fit into the easygoing mold of others. But this time, hearing it from Trip, something feels different.

Instead of defensiveness rising in him, he finds himself smiling. There was no malice in the comment, just a playful nudge, as if Trip was finding something endearing about Malcolm’s very nature. Malcolm realizes, for the first time, that it doesn’t bother him—not with Trip. Maybe it’s because they’ve spent so much time together, the air between them filled with shared moments, small jokes, and the budding warmth that feels uniquely comforting.

"Maybe I am a little uptight," Malcolm admits, his tone light, yet sincere. "But I think... I think it’s nice, in this moment, that I don’t mind it so much." In a moment of selfishness, he adds a friendly “Trip” and the other man lights up like one of his display Christmas trees. His eyes are twinkling and Malcolm fails to ignore the fact that he’s feeling genuinely happy for the first time in months. There’s a companionable silence until a bag of cookies catches his eye. Trip’s gaze follows Malcolm and he grins from ear to ear. 

“Mama Tucker’s famous homemade gingerbread cookies,” he explains proudly. “They’re the best in the world, and I can speak from experience. I used to get a subscription box of desserts from around the world.”

Malcolm smiles and distantly wonders what it must feel like to have such admiration for a mother. He knows his driver appreciates baked goods, and Malcolm’s own sweet tooth is aching, so he justifies his purchase by telling himself he’ll only have one cookie and give the rest to his driver. 

“I’ll take one bag,” Malcolm requests, getting out his wallet. 

Trip just about rockets out of his chair to ring up the order. “You’re gonna love ‘em, I’m sure of it!” 

The total comes up on the screen and Malcolm does a double take. 

“One dollar?” He asks, candidly shocked. He doesn’t notice the way Trip suddenly bristles because Malcolm keeps talking. “That’s highway robbery, surely.” 

Trip’s defenses drop and he feels a little guilty for assuming Malcolm was going to complain about the price being too high. 

“Mama didn’t even want to sell them at first. It took us years to convince her, and she only agreed to it if she could keep the price affordable for everyone. ‘Everyone can find four quarters layin’ around,’ she said. ‘And I’ll never up the price.’” Trip chuckles fondly. “She even mentioned dropping the price if everything else got too expensive.”

“I’m sure she hands them out for free, even now,” Malcolm says, but there’s a question in his tone. 

Trip beams. “She sure does.”

“Well, I still feel like a thief for paying such a low price for homemade goods, but I have a feeling I don’t want to argue with your mother.”

Trip laughs. “You’re catchin’ on quick. 

Malcolm swipes his card and notices that in the few seconds it takes to process, he feels both awkward and comfortable. Usually he dreads this part because he doesn’t like to make small talk but feels as though he shouldn’t be rude and impersonal. And yet, something about Trip just makes Malcolm feel okay with saying nothing. 

Still, his nerves make him feel as though he has some silly high school crush—

His phone rings and he startles, dropping his wallet on the counter. He winces in apology when he looks at the caller ID. 

“One moment, sorry,” he tells Trip before answering. It’s T’Pol and she’s asking him if they’re still on for lunch. “Right! Yes, I’ll be there. I just need to stop by the inn and grab my briefcase. Thank you for confirming. Bye.”

He hangs up and knows that he needs to move quickly or he’ll be late. Tardiness is something that Malcolm doesn’t stand for—unless it’s an emergency—and he knows T’Pol doesn’t, either. “Sorry, I have to go.”

He takes the cookies and the receipt before making his way out of the tent. He doesn’t hear Trip call after him about forgetting his wallet. 

Chapter Text

Once Malcolm grabs his briefcase from his room, he makes his way downstairs. But he’s taken aback by the sight in front of him. Mrs. Birch stands at the counter with two other guests—people Malcolm has seen around her house but hasn’t spoken to.

“Mr. Reed, had I known what your business was in this town, I would never have let you stay,” she says coldly. She’s holding Malcolm’s duffel bag in her hand and drops it to the ground to emphasize her point.

Malcolm bristles, his fingers twitching. “Is there no such thing as privacy?” He reminds himself to be diplomatic, despite every bone in his body screaming security breach.

Mrs. Birch scoffs. “I didn’t look through your bag. It was the only one packed, and you can get the rest of your things and leave. Immediately.” Her words are almost theatrical, punctuated with deliberate emphasis.

Malcolm’s gaze flickers to the small suitcase she’s clearly rummaged through. He doesn’t need to see it to know that his notes are gone—he’s been careful, but not careful enough. She’s found what he needs to keep his purpose in town a secret, and now she knows everything. But it’s not the bag that gives her away. He’d been too distracted at the diner to make sure he and T’Pol kept their business on the down-low. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but now it clicks. Their words had been too specific, too revealing. Mrs. Birch, ever the opportunist, must have been listening. And Tammy must have been the one to tell her, considering she’d been buzzing around their table during the whole conversation.

“You’re telling me to leave?” Malcolm replies, his voice steady despite the surge of anger building inside him. He isn’t fooled by her act. Mrs. Birch is the type to always be watching, always listening, waiting for the right moment to leverage information for her own gain.

Her lips curl into a smirk, though she keeps her arms firmly crossed. “Oh, yes,” she says, almost too sweetly. “I have no need to go through your things. B ut... everyone in town knows who you are now. No one will rent to you. Not now.”

The tension in the room thickens. Malcolm suspects that Mrs. Birch will use whatever she can against him, but hearing her say it so plainly, with no shame, makes him realize just how far she’s willing to go.

“And don’t think I don’t know what you’re really here for,” she continues, her voice dripping with malice now. “This is a small town, Mr. Reed. And I know everything.”

He clenches his fists, forcing himself to remain composed. “You’re not going to get away with this.” He refrains from telling her that he could sue her—he knows that wouldn’t help his reputation.

Mrs. Birch’s smile deepens. “I always do,” she purrs, her voice filled with a cold satisfaction. “And now, I can make sure you never forget it.”

The two of them are staring each other down so intensely that they don’t hear the door open.

“What’s going on?” Trip walks through the doorway and stands a little behind Malcolm.

Mrs. Birch’s expression softens slightly when she looks over at Trip. “Trip, I am so sorry! I had no idea Mr. Reed was here to take your farm. I promise you that he is no longer welcome in my home. I would have never done business with him in the first place.”

Malcolm barely hears her as the blood rushes past his ears. His eyes remain focused on the bag, and his fingers twitch.

Trip looks between Malcolm and Mrs. Birch before making a decision. He stands next to Malcolm.

“First, I think you need to give Malcolm his property.” The coldness in Trip’s tone causes Malcolm to look up at him in fascination.

“How can you possibly be on a first-name basis with this man?” Mrs. Birch huffs indignantly.

“What happens between Malcolm and me is none of your business. And you had no right to take his belongings.”

Malcolm can tell it takes everything Mrs. Birch has not to drop the bag once she picks it up again. She hands it over to Trip, who just shakes his head and motions to Malcolm. It’s almost amusing how red Mrs. Birch’s face gets as she frowns deeply and hands Malcolm the bag. When Malcolm takes it from her, it’s only his training that keeps his hand from shaking out of anger and restraint.

“Thank you,” he says politely, hoping the words don’t sound dragged out of him.

Mrs. Birch ignores him and turns back to Trip.

“Don’t worry, hun, he’ll be gone soon,” she says.

“There are no hotels available for twenty miles. Where am I supposed to go?” Malcolm asks, his voice low but sharp.

“That is not my problem, Mr. Reed,” Mrs. Birch replies coldly, not deigning to look at him.

“Now hold on a minute,” Trip interrupts sharply. “What kind of hospitality are you trying to show Malcolm? Certainly not any I’ve heard of before. Kicking him out on the street?”

“It’s fine—” Malcolm begins, but Trip interrupts him.

“No, it ain’t ‘fine!’” Trip is indignant.

“I’ll make do. I’ll find something. There has to be a hotel with a vacancy.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Mrs. Birch sniffs.

Trip glares at Mrs. Birch while Malcolm counts to ten. Once he’s sufficiently calm, he turns on his heel and heads up to his room.

“I expected better from you, Mrs. Birch,” Trip’s voice floats up the stairway.

“Honestly, Trip, where’s your sense? That man is trying to take your farm!”

Malcolm doesn’t hear the rest of the conversation once he slams the door. As he packs his things, he finds he’ll actually miss this room. He hasn’t been here long enough to grow attached to it, yet he can’t deny the homey feeling it brings. A knock on the door pulls him from his thoughts, and he tenses like a bowstring.

“Come in,” he calls sharply, praying for her sake that it’s not Mrs. Birch.

The door opens slowly, and Trip peeks around it cautiously. “Need any help?”

Malcolm is surprised and a bit embarrassed to see Trip still here. “Uh, no, thank you. I’m almost finished.”

“I’m sorry about Mrs. Birch. I guess I should’ve warned you about her, but I didn’t know you were staying here.”

“Then how did you know where to find me? What are you even doing here?” Malcolm doesn’t mean to sound so irritable, but he doesn’t like that Trip felt the need to come to his rescue—how embarrassing.

To his credit, Trip doesn’t appear offended. Instead, he gives Malcolm an amused smile and takes something out of his pocket. It’s Malcolm’s wallet. Trip opens it and points to the big white label on the inside that reads:

IF FOUND, PLEASE RETURN TO Head of Security MALCOLM REED AT The Pineville Inn, 345 Evergreen Road, Pineville, 50123

Malcolm flushes. “Oh. Yes, I keep that updated with the most recent location. Just in case I lose it somewhere.”

Trip laughs. “Well, I’m glad you don’t keep it in some random spot like ‘found in a parking lot’ or ‘left at the bar.’ Guess that’s a good thing to be meticulous about, huh?”

Malcolm raises an eyebrow, trying to hold back a smile. “I’d say so.”

Trip chuckles, handing the wallet over. “Very efficient.”

Malcolm takes the wallet, checks it quickly with an “I’m just being cautious. Too much on the line here,” as he does so, and then tucks it into his jacket. 

Trip shrugs good-naturedly. “That’s smart.”

Malcolm studies Trip’s body language, looking for any signs of irritation, but finds none.

“There aren’t many things that bother you, are there?” He asks before he can stop himself.

Trip looks at him, a twinkle in his eye as he replies, “Not really. Unless someone’s coming after my family or the farm.”

It’s meant to be a tease, Malcolm knows, but there’s truth in it, and it makes him clear his throat and look away. For a brief moment, he’s able to forget who he really is to Trip and why he’s in this town in the first place. But he shouldn’t forget; he has a job to do. He continues packing, and the silence stretches on. He wonders if it’s awkward for Trip too.

“You never answered my question,” Trip says, breaking the silence.

“Hm?”

“Do you need any help?”

“Ah,” Malcolm pauses and turns slightly toward Trip. “I’ll be alright. Thank you.”

“You sure?”

Malcolm nods. “Yes, I don’t have much more.”

“I really am sorry about Mrs. Birch,” Trip says regretfully. “She’s always been like that. When she was a teacher, we used to call her Mrs… Well, I think you can guess.”

Malcolm smiles. “Clever.”

“Not really. I’m sure there were more clever nicknames. But uh… When will I be meeting this lawyer?”

Right. Back to business.

“I’d think tomorrow morning. But she’ll call and schedule it with you first.”

Trip nods and stares at the floor, as though trying to think of a reason to stay. But Malcolm’s instincts could be wrong.

“Well,” Trip says suddenly, darting his eyes up at Malcolm, “let me know if you need anything.”

“Thank you,” Malcolm says. He hears the door open a few moments later and admits, “I’m going to miss this room, oddly enough. It’s nice.”

Trip pauses at the door, looks back, and grins. “Sure, it’s got a charm to it, but you should see the way my Ma decorates.” Then he’s out the door, leaving Malcolm to wonder if that was an invitation to…something.

He shakes his head, grabs his duffel bag and walks out of the room, heading toward his car, with nothing left but questions on his mind and feeling oddly conflicted. The sudden connection with Trip—what is it? He shakes the feeling off. He’s here to do a job. But as he walks out the door, there’s a slight hesitation, as if part of him might not want to leave Pineville at all.