By Mnemosyne
DISCLAIMER: No familiar characters or situations belong to me. They are the property of Paramount Studios and all affiliated companies and individuals thereof. Long story short, me be broke, so you no sue. LOL!
SUMMARY: Three unrelated short stories revolving around Malcolm's storyline in the second season premiere, "Shockwave II." THIS CHAPTER -- Malcolm's thoughts as he rests in sickbay.
RATING: In the PG-13 to R range
CODES: R, R/S
CATEGORY: Angst, romance, drama
SPOILERS: Possible spoilers up to and including "Shockwave II."
NOTES:
This is my first "Enterprise" fanfic, so I beg you to please be gentle! As I was watching "Shockwave II," I was struck by T'pol's usage of the term "minor injuries" to describe Malcolm's beating at the hands of the Suliban. Now, perhaps they weren't life threatening, but I'd hardly call them minor! I love T'pol, but that ticked me off a little bit. LOL! Needless to say, it started the plot bunnies running rampant in my head, twitching their fluffy tails at me, so I gave in. LOL! But instead of writing three separate stories and posting them individually, I thought I'd try being a little different and posting them together as separate yet related chapters revolving around a theme: Malcolm's actions during "Shockwave II." An anthology of sorts. Weird? Yeah, I've no doubt. LOL! But I had fun doing it. :-D If you don't like one segment, try the others anyway. They're all written in a slightly different style, so one of them might just strike your fancy. I hope you enjoy! If you do, please review! I'd love to hear what positive comments you have to say. Anything overly harsh or negative, please feel free to not review. *giggle* I'm fragile.
ADDENDUM: Did I mention I'm a rabid Reed/Hoshi 'shipper? *innocent eyes* So expect a healthy dose of them in here! :-D
Cannons roar and rifles rattle --
Thoughts fly homeward, words unspoken --
Valiant hearts are oftimes broken…
~ "Love, Farewell" ~
Traditional, as sung by
John Tams
At least he hadn't been shot.
It was poor consolation to the wounded Armory Officer as he rested in Sickbay aboard the starship Enterprise, but it would have to do. He was beaten and bloody, it ached to swallow, and his head hurt like hell, but at least he hadn't been shot. Every nerve ending was screaming in protest, from his hair follicles to the soles of his feet, but at least he hadn't been shot. If he didn't breathe slowly enough, or if he moved his head too fast, the room started to spin and he felt as though he were going to float away.
But at least he hadn't. Been. Shot.
"I'm the bleeding armory officer," he muttered, ignoring the lancing pain this caused in his jaw. "I should have been bloody well shot." The irony of the foul language was not lost on him - "bleeding armory officer" described him to a tee.
Sighing heavily, Malcolm closed his eyes, blocking out the swirling colors of the medical bay. He'd given up trying to make his muscles relax - like Pavlov's dog, they were trained to coil when danger was afoot. The captain had returned to the ship, there was no sign of the Suliban, and for all intents and purposes, all was well. But Malcolm hadn't gotten his position as chief of ship's security by taking everything at face value. Trust nothing, that was his motto. So he waited - waited for the next phase cannon blast to rock the ship, or for the next lizard-faced alien to materialize beside his biobed. His fingers twitched anxiously, eager to wrap around a phase pistol.
Dr. Phlox had been called to the bridge by Commander Tucker, who wanted the amiable Denobulan to verify that Captain Archer was, in truth, all in one piece. Archer, for his part, had refused to go to sickbay, so Trip had decided to bring the water to the horse and "MAKE the damn fleabag drink!" as the chief engineer had so colorfully put it. Which left Malcolm alone with Ensign Cutler, who was doing something quiet and unobtrusive in another section of Sickbay. Reed knew that was his cue to get some sleep - Captain's orders and everything - but he couldn't make his mind rest. His adrenaline was still pumping from his beating on the bridge.
//Best not to think on that, old boy,// Malcolm told himself firmly. //Move along.//
Perhaps he'd have a visitor soon. Except for Trip's quick visit to fetch the doctor, and T'pol briefly looking in on him to verify that he was still alive and kicking, the lieutenant had been left to his own devices. He was a solitary creature by habit, but a selfish part of his personality had hoped that someone might take a moment, now that the danger was seemingly past, to drop in and congratulate him on being a bit of a hero. Nothing along the lines of Theseus or Hercules, or any of the mythological paradigms of heroism. But it would be to deny his own vanity to say that he didn't think he deserved a LITTLE bit of praise.
He sighed.
//Hoshi.//
Now where had HER name come from?
//I'd rather like to see Hoshi just now.//
Chuckling to himself - then wincing at the pain it caused - he tilted his head to the side, eyes still closed. Hoshi had even less need to come see him than T'pol did. Malcolm had the sneaking suspicion that the young comm officer was a little afraid of him. She certainly didn't go out of her way to chat with him when they were alone, nor did she seek him out for anything other than ship's business. Sometimes he had the urge to sneak up behind her and whisper, "Boo!" in her ear, just to see her reaction. But the more dignified - and thankfully, duty-conscious - side of his nature kept him at bay.
Still, it would be nice to see her. There was something soothing about the pretty Asian communications officer. Malcolm was tempted to link it to her eyes - huge and liquid, like tranquil pools in fragrant Japanese gardens. T'pol's face was too full of angles and jagged edges, and Trip, while a close friend, was about as calming as a pot of very strong coffee. Mayweather was an excitable young man with a tendency to get nervous whenever he was in Sickbay - no blame there. And the captain… Well, the captain was the Captain. It was difficult to relax in his presence. Especially if he had the confounded pup with him.
But Hoshi was different. It sounded cliched, but she was a good listener; good to the point that one didn't even have to speak for her to hear every word you would have said, had you spoken. Reed gloried in his reticence - good British boys didn't go about chattering like a flock of geese. They spoke when spoken to, or when there was something very important to say. Hoshi's world of words and language was unexplored territory for him, and he found it fascinating. He would have talked to her about her field of expertise - hung on almost every word - if she hadn't spent quite so much time making tracks to get away from him.
Seeing her without a shirt… Well, that had been a lovely little shock. Fantastic, yes, but bloody terrifying as well.
Perhaps THAT was why she was on his mind. He wondered briefly what had happened to the shirt he'd loaned her, and if he should ask for it back.
Thinking of Ensign Sato was not helping his condition. If anything, it was making things worse - he was now aware of aches and pains in places he hadn't even realized he'd been wounded. Already tense muscles were tightening even further, bunching like fists in his thighs and abdomen. He moaned.
//Stop,// he told himself firmly, clenching his teeth together and fighting back another moan. //Stop thinking. Stop everything. Sleep. Sleep, damn you to hell…//
His internal chronometer piped up cheerfully, informing him that he'd been in this infernal room for a good three hours. Three long, sleepless, aching hours.
Three very lonely hours.
//Just a little bit of a hero,// he thought absently.
Letting his eyes open - mere slits in his angular face - he gazed at the Sickbay door, willing it to open. Perhaps the doctor would return and give him an inhumanly large smile and tell him that all was well with the bridge crew, and he should get some sleep. Or maybe it would be Trip, grinning from ear to ear and drawling about hard-headed Englishmen and their penchant for getting "whupped" by every tinhorn alien that came down the pipe. Or maybe the Captain would come down and thank him personally for helping to rescue him from the future.
Then again, perhaps Ensign Sato would show up and offer to give him back his shirt, and everything underneath…
His blue eyes burned as he gazed at the door, waiting.
Twenty minutes later, he let his lids drift closed.
//Not much of a hero,// he reminded himself quietly. //Happens all the time…//
It would be nice to have a visitor, but there were more important things to be seen to aboard a starship such as this. Engines had to be checked, checked, and rechecked. Weapons had to be primed and diagnostics had to be run. Sensors had to be monitored, and anomalies examined. One missing officer was hardly a blip on the map; there were a dozen underlings who could take his place.
He was falling asleep; he could feel it. Despite the soreness in his facial muscles and the aching of his upper body, he let himself relax. Breathing deeply, he decided he had no right to feel bitter. Given their options, he'd done only what had to be done. There was no heroism involved - put in his situation, anyone would have made the same decision. It was the only decision that could be made.
//Not much of a hero, Malcolm,// he chided himself, then added sarcastically, //What would dear old dad say?//
That wasn't a very pleasant thought to drift off to sleep with, so he pictured Hoshi shirtless in his doorway again, and decided that was much better.
//No right to complain,// he thought sleepily, as sleep pulled him under. //And at least I didn't get shot…//
THE END (of chapter one)