Set in Season One, after Desert Crossing.
Grateful thanks to my beta reader, RoaringMice.
Trip leaned with his hands on the sink to take a good look at his sunburned self in the mirror, and the smirk that instinctively twisted his face made his taut skin pull painfully. Turning his face slightly, he saw that his nose and the top of his ears were peeling. Great. Phlox's salve had done little yet to repair the damage done to his swollen and angry-red derma.
"Patience, Commander!" the Doctor had said, voice rippling with inappropriate delight; and had gone on to lecture him on the skin's reactions to extreme exposure to heat and radiation, and on the time that would be necessary for it to heal. Well, he supposed he should be grateful that during his twelve hours in Sickbay Phlox hadn't stuck any of his creatures on him.
The Doc could at least have allowed him to wash his hair, though. But no; Phlox had forbidden him, at least for a few days, on the grounds that it was best to keep any detergent off his face. Trip raked a hand through it, and his fingers could still feel sand.
For the umpteenth time an unforgiving little voice in his mind whispered that it was all Jon's fault, and that it wasn't fair the man wasn't suffering a bit more for it. Sure, Archer had turned a deep reddish-brown, and drunk a tank of water since their rescue, but nothing more than that. No serious dehydration, no fever... Damn, he hadn't even spent any time in the Doc's claws, aside from a perfunctory check-up. If someone deserved to look like a cooked lobster – the pissed-off voice hissed – that was Archer, who had sweet-talked him into tagging along to that planet when he'd made it clear that he didn't want to go.
Trip sighed. Alright. The man had made it up by saving his hide; Jon had been willing to die, rather than leave him behind. He supposed he could show a bit of understanding and forgive him.
Ah, hell, the only man who truly understood anyone right now – namely the guy looking back – was the poor devil in the mirror. Trip addressed him a forlorn glance; then, breaking contact with his reflected self, grabbed a towel and, wetting a corner of it, touched it carefully to his burned face.
One thing was sure: he'd hated the idea of visiting that desert from the start, but the hell if he had expected to find himself in the middle of terrorists. If they were terrorists. Yeah, because that remained to be seen.
Actually it didn't.
Forget about Zobral and his plight. They were already speeding away from the place and all its problems, and all he cared for now, honestly and truthfully, was to be in good shape for the next stop: Risa. Now, that was something to look forward to. Maybe he should go back to bed and try to get the rest to which all Doctors seemed to attribute such miraculous properties. If only…
Throwing the towel aside, Trip controlled another instinctive wince: he had spent the last couple of hours tossing and turning, trying in vain to find a cool side to his pillow: the damn thing had absorbed enough heat from his face never to have a cool side again. Ever. Maybe Phlox should have kept him in sickbay another day with one of his magic potions dripping into his system.
Trip pushed off the sink and strolled back listlessly to his quarters. Hands on his hips, he scanned the room in vain for something to occupy him.
Who was he trying to kid? It wasn't only his burning skin that made rest impossible. His mind had been in overdrive ever since it had regained clear thinking; too many memories, and also a few questions, likely to remain without answers.
A glance at the clock told him it was nearly five in the morning. A bit early for breakfast, but at least he didn't have to worry about meeting too many people: his Robinson Crusoe looks were enough to scare the wits out of those who hadn't yet seen them.
Grabbing a sweatshirt, he pulled it carefully on and let himself out, into the Gamma-shift deserted corridors.
The Mess hall was quiet, no bustling nor drifting wafts of coffee. Perfect.
Trip was already turning to the drink dispenser when, out the corner of his eye he caught something that stopped him dead in his tracks.
Actually, someone.
A dark head was buried in arms crossed over a table; and the man to whom it belonged, and whose shoulders, on closer inspection, were moving in rhythm with his relaxed breathing, was not someone you'd normally catch unaware or off-guard.
This was truly a sight.
Trip studied the figure. The sleeves of Malcolm's uniform were rolled up to his elbows, and his jumpsuit looked worn; in other words, this was no early rise. Damn if the man wasn't a workaholic; but staying up late enough to drop unconscious on a table seemed a bit excessive even for him, especially in times when there was no emergency, like now.
Unsure of what to do, Trip took a few stealthy steps closer, and his eyes were drawn to a padd., which had slipped out of Malcolm's hand and lay abandoned nearby. It was still switched on. No amount of neck stretching allowed him to read more than a few, albeit eloquent, words – Tactics in Desert Warfare – and he didn't dare getting any closer: there was no telling what the Lieutenant's reaction might be should he become aware of someone hovering over him.
Frowning, Trip shifted his gaze to the sleeping man. It seemed a bit futile to delve into desert tactics now; they had left orbit around that ball of sand more than twenty-four hours earlier.
Well, he doubted Malcolm would like to be found asleep on a table by the A-shift crew coming in for breakfast. His own breakfast all but forgotten, Trip took another step and reached out to put a hand on the man's shoulder.
"Hey, Malcolm."
A light shake was enough to make the dark head shoot up, its owner blinking against the glare of the lights.
"Commander?" Malcolm croaked out as he started to pick himself up. One of his hands flew to his neck, and he stifled a groan.
"Had a good sleep?" Trip teased.
Malcolm winced. "What time is it?"
"Five. A few minutes past, to be exact."
"What the... I was…"
As he finished straightening, Malcolm looked to be slowly taking stock.
"I must have dozed off," he concluded, almost to himself.
"Uh – unless we've got alien intruders, and you were stunned."
Trip's sunburn didn't allow for fully-raised eyebrows, but the quip had the wanted effect, causing Malcolm's mouth to twist into a smirk.
"Don't even joke about it," he muttered.
For a moment his eyes roamed over Trip's face, clearly taking in its sorry state; it wasn't long, though, before he averted them, as if afraid to be caught staring.
Trip jerked his chin towards the padd., still lying on the table. "Can't blame ya for nodding off, Lieutenant. Doesn't exactly look like a page-turner."
The grey gaze tracked to the object. It was immediately picked up and turned off, Malcolm's movements as uneasy as the tight shadow of a non-smile that curved his lips.
"Isn't it kinda pointless to delve into desert warfare now?" Trip wondered out loud. "Like closing the gate after the flock has left."
This time he got back a hooded glance, which made him stop and think. Damn. It had definitely sounded like criticism; of what exactly, he could only guess, but all the same he gave himself a mental kick.
"Look, I'm sorry; I didn't mean it like that," he started to explain, sitting down in a chair across from the Lieutenant.
"I only wanted to brush up on the subject," Malcolm stuttered defensively, speaking at the same time.
He froze, and both fell silent, each waiting for the other to continue.
"It's just that… next time I want to be prepared," Malcolm eventually went on.
"Next time?"
Trip let out a meaningful huff. "Let me tell you, if I have any say in the matter we're stayin' clear of any other desert planet we may stumble upon." With a frown, he added, "Besides, prepared for what? We aren't out here to wage wars."
"But we never know when we might find ourselves in the middle of one." Malcolm's face darkened as he continued, "I had to fly a shuttle into a war zone, looking for you and the Captain."
"And you did great. You found us and we're all back safe and sound. What are you complainin' about?"
"I'm not complaining," Malcolm bit back automatically.
He fiddled with the padd., finally shoving it into his breast pocket.
"Look, I felt out of my depth down there," he continued tautly. "There were things I had an imperfect grasp of; things I didn't quite know how to deal with."
If nothing else, his spiky accent was a sure sign that he hadn't exactly lived the rescue mission as a walk in the park. Not that one could expect anything different.
After a pause Malcolm concluded, "I don't like that."
Yeah, that was Lieutenant Reed all right. You had to give it to the man; he took his job very seriously.
Suddenly Trip was curious.
"And what have you learned?" he enquired.
Amusement – which proved he didn't know the man very well – flitted across Malcolm's features.
"Are you asking me to give you a lecture on how to turn a few hot sandbanks to your advantage, Commander?"
Trip didn't mind when the stiff Lieutenant let himself go to a bit of dry British humour. He straightened in his seat. "Indulge me, Mister Reed."
Eyes still bright, Malcolm studied him for a long moment, seemingly gauging if he was serious. But since Trip just looked back expectantly, he straightened in his seat too, and a serious frown came to crease his brow as his focus turned inward.
It had always intrigued Trip how quickly Malcolm's mood could change. It was, to be honest, also slightly disturbing. He hadn't yet learned to read him; what reaction to expect from him.
"Desert warfare is desirable against foreign armies that are not familiar with the area or experienced in desert warfare," Malcolm began. "Knowing how to navigate in the desert is the desert fighter's best advantage."
He stopped his mechanical recitation to contemplate something. His gaze narrowed and he muttered, "Zobral undoubtedly knew that part quite well."
Before Trip could say anything, he resumed, "Indeed the successful defender or attacker will need to know how to maneuver around in this environment and use it to their advantage."
"What was that, about Zobral?" Trip managed to slip in, as the Lieutenant paused for breath.
Malcolm pressed his lips together. "He knew the enemy's positions, at what altitude it was best to fly to elude detection; and about some magnetic deposits that could interfere with our sensors and mask your biosigns."
His tone – that dark, scratchy voice he chose sometimes to produce – was clearly displeased.
"What's so bad about that?" Trip asked in surprise. "I mean, we oughtta be grateful that he shared that knowledge with you, right?"
Wrong. Malcolm's eyes narrowed again, this time cuttingly.
"Sure," he snapped back. "Except that he had deliberately put you in danger in the first place. And when he discovered you weren't useful to him he was going to abandon you to your own devices."
Trip watched Malcolm turn away, anger exuding from every tense muscle. He suspected the dishonourable aspect of the second part outraged the man more than the trickery of the first.
"A good sniper can be a major danger to an opposing army in desert terrain," Malcolm unexpectedly resumed, turning back to dart him a challenging glance that said 'you wanted a lecture? Now you've got to listen to it'. "Snipers can keep an enemy from getting water as well as destroy their water supply. Indeed a small force can defeat a larger, stronger, thirstier force, and..."
Emotions playing shadow theatre behind his usually impenetrable eyes, he faltered.
"And?" Trip nudged him gently.
It wasn't difficult to imagine what was going through his head; Trip might not know the man very well, but he knew the Lieutenant well enough to tell he must feel he had not absolved his duty of protecting them from danger. God only knew what Malcolm thought he should have done: probably scanned the entire planet for weapons before letting them accept Zobral's invitation.
Taking one's job so at heart was commendable, and yet… did Malcolm ever feel proud of himself? Did he ever feel he had done a good job? The thought brought with it a measure of sadness.
"You took a significant risk, down there," Malcolm muttered.
Trip emerged from his abstraction and met the man's troubled gaze.
"When we finally found you, I feared..." He blinked, clearly reliving the moment in his mind. "The Captain was more or less okay, but you were quite out of it, Trip."
"I never was one for hot environments," Trip tried to quip; but having his own memories to contend with, he wasn't able to deliver, and the humour choked in his throat.
Leaning back in his seat, Malcolm crossed his arms over his chest. "How are you feeling?" he asked quietly, with a direct look.
Trip jerked his head to the side, shrugging. "A lot better than a few hours ago."
The grey gaze bore into him even more. "That man, Zobral, was a selfish bastard."
Trip considered the cold words. Zobral had filled his thoughts ever since their rescue. Yeah. He, as much as his own skin, had kept him awake.
"Or a desperate devil?" he breathed out. "He told us a tale of oppression. Right or wrong, he was only fightin' a battle," he reasoned out loud, for his own sake.
Despite all they had gone through, Zobral's heartfelt appeal to help his people's cause still rang in his ears. It had sounded sincere. Not easy to be objective about him, though; especially after he'd almost caused you to take the big jump.
While the silence stretched, Trip watched the edge in Malcolm's gaze gradually blunt as the words sank in and he obviously weighed them against his own hasty judgment.
"He thought the Capt'n could help him win it."
There was a mirthless snort.
"Right, the great warrior," Malcolm commented, emphatically.
As fast as it had come over it, the sarcasm was wiped off his face.
"No disrespect intended, of course," he hurried to add.
Trip controlled a smile. "Of course."
"So ya figure Zobral was really a bad guy?" he wondered after a pause, curious to know whether his friend had revised his opinion. "The terrorist they said he was?"
Malcolm took in a breath and blew it out slowly. "I don't know. Perhaps he was just a desperate bloke fighting for a just cause. All I know is that if it hadn't been for Subcommander T'Pol's logical arguing, if she hadn't insisted that he was responsible for your lives, he would've let you die in that desert. And I can't accept that."
Trip absent-mindedly rubbed his peeling nose. In his mind for some reason there were two sets of disconnected memories, as if they didn't belong to the same time: he and the Captain were having lunch with Zobral, and playing that game; and then – bang! – he was slumped in that shelter, delirious, begging Archer to let him sleep.
"Ah, it's too bad," he mused out loud. "We were havin' fun before things took such a bad turn."
Malcolm shot him a deadpan look. "I though you said you don't like hot environments."
"I don't, but…" Trip squirmed under the Lieutenant's suddenly curious eyes. "We got to play a team game, where you threw a ball with some sort of big spoon; I love a bit of competition. The Capt'n and I weren't doin' half-bad at it either. And before that we'd had lunch and…"
Oh, hell, lunch!
Trip guffawed into a laugh, for once unmindful if it pulled on his sore skin. "Blood soup! Ya oughtta have been there."
"Blood soup?" Malcolm repeated with a grimace of disgust. "And you say you were having fun?"
Trip snorted, lost in one particular memory that was uncharacteristically clear. He could still see Archer's face as he politely tasted those...
"Best part was these small round things floating around in it…" he said, trailing and waiting for Malcolm to rise to the bait.
Malcolm gave him a long, wary look. "What were they?" he finally obliged.
"The 'essence of the male', chopped and seasoned."
Colour – what little was there to start with – drained from the Lieutenant's face.
"You mean..." he stuttered. "And you actually ate that?"
Trip burst into another hearty laughter. "Couldn't exactly refuse, it had been prepared especially for us."
"Oh, well, lucky you," Malcolm said meaningfully.
"And to think I was afraid I'd have to eat snake meat," Trip chuckled, shaking his head.
A yawn took him by surprise, and he quickly brought a hand to his mouth.
Malcolm frowned. "If I may ask, Commander, what are you doing here so early?"
"Couldn't sleep. My sunburn is killin' me."
As he hid another yawn, Trip started to pick himself up from the chair. "But it looks like I might finally be able to catch a little shuteye."
Malcolm rose too. "Why didn't you get Phlox to give you something?"
"Was afraid that that something might be one of his slimy creatures."
"God forbid," Malcolm said with deep understanding.
Trip stretched. "Damnit, I haven't scorched myself this badly in the sun since that time I took Natalie out on a boat and played macho – no sun lotion."
A rare full smile graced Malcolm's lips. "You'd better heal and soon, Commander," he teased. "Don't forget that our next stop is Risa."
"No worries. I'm plannin' to be in perfect shape for that. Nothin' will spoil my shore leave."
The Mess hall doors closed behind them.
"R & R for two days and two nights?"
Trip shot Malcolm a 'What-are-you-crazy?' look. "Uh-oh," he said, shaking his head gravely. "That's not for me." He poked an index on his friend's shoulder. "You come with me, Lieutenant, and I promise you'll have the time of your life."
The moment he said that, he realised the kind of fun he meant to have maybe didn't do for the principled man before him, but it was too late.
Malcolm narrowed his eyes. "Hmm. Maybe I'd better go along just so I can keep an eye on you."
"Ah, no. If you come with me, you've got to leave your work behind," Trip warned. He contained another yawn. "Come on," he said, in part to take the conversation away from the uncomfortable spot, "time for me to take a nap, and for you to get ready for your shift."
They walked the corridors back to their quarters in companionable silence.
Stopping in front of his door, Malcolm turned.
"Thanks for… well, you know." He winced. "Wouldn't have wanted Müller to find me asleep on a table."
Trip smiled. "You're welcome." His legs wanted to go, but something unspoken in Malcolm's gaze detained him. "What?" he asked.
Malcolm pursed his lips. "It's happened to me a few times, to think that someone…" He raked a hand through the side of his head. "Well, to misjudge someone."
Trip raised his eyebrows. "You mean me, before that mission in Shuttlepod One?"
"No…" Malcolm blanched. "Well, yes, I suppose you too," he stammered. "But… What I mean is…" He heaved a deep sigh. "I still think Zobral acted as a selfish bastard; but I shouldn't really judge him."
Trip nodded slowly. He liked this man. Talk of misjudgments…
"I'd say that's quite wise," he agreed.
"I also think the Captain did well to keep out of that fight," Malcolm added huskily. "Even if we could have been certain of which side to side with, as you said we are not here to wage wars."
"Absolutely."
And then the clouds were gone from Malcolm's eyes again.
"So, what exactly are you planning to do on Risa, Commander?" he enquired in a totally different tone, the corners of his mouth quirking up.
"Have fun, Lieutenant." Trip debated for a moment; then let mischief play on his face. "Fun as in-"
"No," Malcolm cut him off, raising his hands, palms out. "I get the idea." He licked his lips. "Nothing wrong with a bit of fun, I suppose," he amended. Pushing the button, he opened the door, took a step into his dark room and turned. "After all, who am I to judge?"
Trip studied the grey eyes. Something there…
He had caught just a few glimpses of Malcolm's playful side – the man asking him about T'Pol's bum, and building that Vulcan snowman. Could it be that it was a lot naughtier than the man let you think?
Hmm… Maybe they should go on shore leave together.
"Pack lightly," he ordered, having made up his mind. Flicking a salute, he started to move off, walking backwards. "We won't – uhm – need many clothes."
The last thing he saw before rounding the bend were Malcolm's raised eyebrows.
THE END
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