Title: Same Time, Same Place
Codes: R/S, smidgen of Tu/T'P, ***Death Fic****, major ***Angsty.****
Disclaimer: Paramount/Viacom own them. No profit is being made, please don't sue.
A/N: This is a complete stand alone piece that started as a Tu/T'P, then morphed into a A/S which was thrown out entirely in favor of a R/S. No, I shouldn't be diverting my attention, but the idea randomly came to me. I had to bang it out before I could get back to Consequences and And Baby Makes Four.
****
I'm late. He'd hate that. Chalk it up to a serious character flaw on my behalf.
I always hated the way old movies portrayed cemeteries. They came across as such clichés. Cold, windy, gray. Sometimes for fun, they'd throw in rain, to make it wet too. As though the world stops the moment you drive through the gate. The person in mourning is given the false hope that the world will bow to their pain so much that even the weather will acquiesce them. At least while they're in the gates.
Standing here in the middle of a San Francisco graveyard, with the sun beating down mercilessly, I find myself aching for that familiar cold, windy, gray, wet cemetery. Especially the wet portion. That would help to hide the tears substantially, I believe.
Unable to hide them, I let them flow relentlessly. The thought comes to me that perhaps I won't be able to stop once I allow the tears to start. *How selfish.* Surely the man lying in the ground deserves more from me than that. With that as my excuse, I allow the tears to turn to sobs, and allow the sobs to take control of my body. Unable to stand any longer, I collapse to the ground. My knees contact the warm, solid ground that would have been rain soaked if any justice existed in the universe. Then again, if it did, he wouldn't be dead.
Or we would have been together just once before he died. Together as something more than Ensign and Lieutenant; Armory Officer and Linguist.
But we weren't. Which again pretty much proves the unfairness of the universe.
The way I'm behaving, anyone would think we buried him today or yesterday. Not twenty years ago.
Insanely, I allow my fingers to trace the name engraved in the stone. As though that will somehow bring me closer with what I have lost. I start with the familiar: Reed. This portion was sterile, safe. Reed was no more than a suffix attached to the prefix of Lieutenant. Squeezing my eyes shut in a futile attempt to stop the tears, I recall the numerous occasions the word escaped my mouth while serving on the Enterprise.
Strange, the number must be in the thousands. Yet I am certain I can recall every one of those thousand instances. They all assault my memory simultaneously at once and one at a time. Physically impossible, I suppose. But that's what it feels like in any event. And damn it, I'm a linguist, not a physicist. That thought stirs up the last conversation we'd had together before his death.
*~*~*~*
"Communications officer, Malcolm. That's what they call them now. There are no linguists left in Starfleet."
"Somehow that doesn't seem right. It's too stale. There's no sound of exploration in that term."
"There's little need of course. Most communications officers are little more than galactic versions of twentieth century telephone operators. Interpreting new languages on a daily basis isn't part of their job description. Push a couple buttons, that's it."
"My, my, Commander Sato, is that the distinct voice of the green eyed monster I hear?"
"Not at all. Just a fact."
"Ah, I see. Well, if it makes you feel better, they are determined to call my people "security officers." In fact, I don't believe anyone in the whole bloody fleet would know what an 'armory' is if it walked up to them and bit them."
"Don't the new ships have them?"
"Yes, but they're called the 'weapons room.' How unsophisticated is that?"
*~*~*~*
Finishing my tracing of the "d," I stare at the forbidden word: Malcolm. It takes several attempts to get my hand to co-operate with my brain and meet the letters in the stone.
As I trace the letters, my linguist's brain tries desperately to think of them as just that: letters. No emotional attachment. Just letters.
I can't do it.
MMasculine, majestic, medals oh, so many metals,
Murmur. Oh, yes, that's the strongest memory. And infinitely the sweetest. It describes the way Malcolm would sometimes allow himself to speak if distracted enough. In the mess hall because he was trying to read an armory report while simultaneously eating dinner and having a conversation with me. Of course, that's the only tense I ever heard it in. I imagine his lovers heard a murmur of a different kind.
AAbove and beyond the call of duty, adorable British accent, armory, aloof, allergy, alien attacks, admiral.
Afar. The way I'd been forced to love him. I had wanted so much more and when he'd offered his friendship I had been certain that his love was within my grasp. I eventually gave up, but always, always, loved him from afar.
L Loyalty, lieutenant, lustLove-when had I not felt it for this man? Best to move on to the next letter.
CCareful, cautious, concentration, unflappable concentration.
Claustrophobia-The memory of telling Malcolm about my claustrophobia and his ensuing tale about aqua phobia. "Birds of a feather flock together," I had remarked.
"Yes, but hopefully our friendship is based on something other than our respective psychoses," he had quipped.
"Oh, Malcolm," I mutter to the unhearing stone in front of me. "If you had any idea."
O
Oath, obedient, officer-the perfect officer.
Old-What Malcolm would never live to be. No, Captain Reed had gone down with his ship-just as I had always expected he would do. His attempts had not been for nothing, however. His crew had survived due to his heroics and the name Malcolm Reed would forever be synonymous with self-sacrifice for the better good.
LLaughter, lonely, long held desire, love, oh, love.
MMadeline, mother Mary, Romulan mines, mess hall conversations.
Memories-they're all I have left now. Sweet memories of what had been, bitter memories of what would never be, and agonizing memories of what could have been. There's a phrase I've repeated over and over since I made my fateful decision to give up on Malcolm. "You can't lose what you never had." I repeated it as I walked down the isle, when I heard of Malcolm's marriage, when I heard news that he had started a family, when he had died.
Whoever coined that particular phrase was a vicious, vicious liar. Almost as bad as the person who came up with "it's better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all."
God knows I loved him. I just got so tired of waiting. I had waited for five years-wasn't half a decade long enough? Half a decade worth of baring my soul to him without any reciprocation on his behalf. Those mess hall conversations had always been full of me talking to Malcolm with his idle comments occasionally fulfilling the gap. Then he would end the conversation by getting up and going back to work. Unfailingly, I would start the conversation and he would end it.
Not that my ego couldn't take it. I wanted the opportunity to end the conversation once in a while. More to the point, I wanted him to start them. How many times did that happen?
He knew so much about me-my favorite color, my childhood secrets, my fondest wishes and desires-all of which I told him because I desperately loved and trusted him. And I wanted him to feel the same towards me.
But that wasn't to be. Instead, even after years of friendship I could list the things I knew about Malcolm using one hand. Hell, I'm not even certain if pineapple was his favorite food. Maybe he just liked it.
I feel so guilty now for giving up, walking away. Malcolm married late in life . . . maybe if I had just been patient?
But was I so wrong for wanting him to trust me enough to share his heart the way I had shared mine?
"Malcolm," I murmur softly again. "I have to get ready to go soon. Stupid Admiral duties call. But I know you want an update on the old crew.
Well, Jon and T'Pol are still serving their terms as Earth and Vulcan representatives on the Federation council. Trip is semi-retired but is still serving as a consultant on the new Enterprise they're building. Oh, and he and T'Pol welcomed their fifth grandchild. Who would have thought, huh? Out of all of the members of the crew that they'd grow old happily together?"
My resolve breaks at the though. *Why couldn't it have been us?*
But I continue on. Malcolm would want to know. "Liz recently returned from Denobula after Phlox's death. Travis is still retired and is carrying on the boomer tradition. He says it's no more starships for him. But I don't know-last time I talked to his youngest granddaughter, she seemed pretty interested in Starfleet."
I am interrupted by the chime of my communicator.
"Sato here."
"Sorry to bother you, Admiral. But it's time."
"Understood. Give me one minute. Sato out."
Turning back to the grave, I remark sorrowfully, "Well, Malcolm, that's it. I have to go. It's too bad you can't come with me. We're dedicating the Pineapple Sector of the Malcolm Reed Building of Tactical Engineering today." I smile, thinking of the looks of some of my fellow admirals when the name "Pineapple Sector" had been suggested. "See, Malcolm, it's the sector that is going to be devoted to the toughest cases to crack in Starfleet intelligence."
Standing, I can only hope those in the Pineapple Sector give up on tough cases less readily than I did in my youth.
"Happy Birthday, Malcolm," I tell the grave as the transporter begins to dematerialize my atoms. "See you next year. Same time, same place. I'll try not to be late next time."
***
Please R/R. And yes, I know Mal's b-day is several months away. But, eh. . . who knows where or what I'll be doing in September?