This story picks up more or less where "When I Will Be Forgiven" ends, but can be read as a stand-alone. It's my take on Malcolm's feelings about his days in Section 31.
RoaringMice beta read it for me. To her and all my readers, a heart-felt Merry Christmas!
It was a boring mission. At least for Trip it was: his idea of a good time didn't include flying a Shuttlepod through an asteroid field.
There might have been an element of fun had he been required to use his piloting skills; but they were here to test the vessel's new shields – meaning that they weren't supposed to avoid the asteroids, but simply fly through them, letting the computer record the upgrade's performance.
Trip eyed the instruments; minutes ago he had engaged the autopilot. Heck, there was no reason why he shouldn't leave things in the hands of the flight computer: the new shields, according to Malcolm's calculations, could handle much greater impacts than those provided by the sparse and rather small rocks of this specific field – and he trusted Malcolm's calculations blindly. Besides, this time they'd even received the imprimatur of Miss Perfection & Logic. He was as safe as a baby in his… No, no, no – a small himself in T'Pol's arms, or worse yet Malcolm's was definitely a mental image he'd rather not contemplate.
Hell, was that how he was going to have to kill the boredom?
Trip refocused on Malcolm. The man was tapping away silently on his keyboard. In other words, he was being his usual swell company.
And to think that while he was cooped up in this small vessel with a dumb – as in mute – Armoury Officer, Enterprise was scanning a scrumptious M-class planet! The Captain had looked quite determined to take an away team down to it.
Jon had really done it to him this time. Nothing had served to soften him. Archer's eyebrows had lifted above unmoved green eyes. "Is anything the matter, Commander?" he had enquired, perfectly aware of what the matter was and perfectly at ease with his command decision. The list of objections was so long that Trip had hesitated briefly, while he tried to figure out where to start, and that had undone him. "Very well, then," Archer had quickly put in, to all effects dismissing him. "Keep in touch."
So here they were, in a damn pod being pelted by rocks. Not that it felt like it, mind you; the shields must be working fine, because the ride was as smooth as a baby's…
Ah, no – enough with the baby metaphors.
Trip got up and stretched. Shuffling to the back of the pod, he sprawled on the rear bench. A lose thread in the upholstery caught his eye; sighing, he started pulling at it. Damnit, he should have brought along music, or a book, or...
"Yessss..."
The sibilant word made him once again shift his gaze to the man who had uttered it: Malcolm was looking at the tactical display as if there was a beautiful girl scantily dressed on it, instead of a series of numbers. How anyone could find some damned statistics of some damned deflecting shields so captivating was plain incomprehensible.
"Your new toy's workin'?" he asked in a monotonous drawl, hoping to start a conversation.
Without looking at him, the Lieutenant shifted his head sideways, as a satisfied smile lit his usually serious countenance. "To perfection," he said in that rough deep voice that signified he was really into whatever he was doing. Fingers flying over the commands and tapping away with determined strokes, he added, "And I think I can tweak it to be even more effective."
"Really?" Oh joy.
Silence fell again. That was apparently as far as Trip could get Malcolm to be distracted from his job. To be sure, the man's incredible capacity to focus was well-known, and never ceased to impress him. For a few minutes it was actually nice to watch him work away, every atom pointed in the same direction. Malcolm was a fine professional and everything about him spoke of dedication and of a keen intelligence. Well, mediocrity was not to be found on Enterprise. In some way or other, each one of the people who had made it on Earth's first Warp 5 ship was special. That's what made being part of the team so exciting.
Except for today.
Trip yawned, lulled by the hum of the engine and the clicks of Malcolm's keyboard strokes. Exciting, today's mission, was not. It was almost a relief when the alarm went off.
In a flash Trip was on his feet. "What's up?"
Clouds had already gathered in Malcolm's grey gaze as it met his briefly.
"It's the exhaust ports. They seem to be getting clogged."
"They're not supposed to," Trip wondered, joining him at the front of the pod.
"I kn- Oh, bloody…"
Malcolm's fingers resumed tapping away, calling up info, but Trip didn't really need to look at it. And neither did Malcolm – he was sure. They both knew.
"Your shields, workin' too well?"
Grey eyes met blue again, before shooting away.
"Sorry," Malcolm muttered self-consciously. "I should have thought of it."
"Hm."
Which went to prove that even brilliant minds could have oversights.
Sitting down, Trip disengaged the autopilot and slowed the vessel, veering to take it out of the asteroid field. "How bad it is?" he cast over his shoulder.
"Pretty bad, I'm afraid. We'll have to take the engine off-line."
"Peachy." Trip straightened his shoulders and focused on avoiding as many rocks as possible, now. "I wouldn't mind gettin' to clear space, before we do that."
"If we're about to explode I'll let you know," Malcolm said wryly.
A few minutes later they had abandoned the asteroid field and were drifting through space in eerie silence. It was always a bit unsettling to be on a vessel without power; to hear no buzz, feel no vibrations under your feet. It gave you a different perspective on things: out there, lost in the vast expanse of the universe, even the best in their professions were no more significant than grains of sand in a desert, or drops of water in an ocean. If that.
"Damn, I'm sorry," Malcolm repeated, his words sounding loud in the sudden quiet. He leaned back in his chair and expelled a slow breath, raking a hand through his hair. "I really ought to have thought that the stronger shields would shatter some of the smaller rocks into fine dust and…" He trailed, stormy-grey eyes finally holding Trip's long enough for real communication.
"Hey, nobody's perfect – not even T'Pol," Trip quipped, curving his mouth in a smile that did nothing to distract Malcolm from his self-reproaching. "Look at it this way: somethin' to work on when we get back."
Oh, yeah – there was that: the getting back part.
"Speaking of which..." Fingering the comm. link, he paged, "Tucker to Enterprise."
"Commander," Hoshi's youthful voice greeted him.
"I'm afraid we need a tow, Ensign. Debris from the asteroids has clogged our exhausts ports and we've had to take the engine off-line."
"Sir, the Captain and a scientific team led by Commander T'Pol have taken the other pod down to the planet. I'm afraid we can't leave orbit right now."
"Great," Trip commented deadpan. "Alright. Just try not to leave us stranded for too long." He cast a glance at his partner. "We haven't even brought Ulysses with us."
"I'm sorry, Sir, brought who?"
Smiling at Malcolm's look of sufferance, Trip replied, "Nothin', Ensign. Just inform the Captain about our situation, and give us a call when you have an idea of your ETA."
"Aye, Sir. Enterprise out."
Cutting the link, Trip sighed and got up. There wasn't much room to move about, but he strolled to the back of the pod, in the illusion of stretching his legs a bit. Pulling the bench container open, he peered inside it. "No bourbon either, this time," he muttered.
"No microsingularities, hopefully. That's the important thing," Malcolm countered philosophically, already turning back to the screen; no doubt his mind was even now deploying troops to attack the problem he had failed to anticipate.
Dropping back on the bench, Trip's gaze went round the small vessel before returning to his only possible source of company.
Nowadays Malcolm was a different person from the stiff young man who had reported for duty as Enterprise's Armoury Officer four years before, the insufferable man he'd been stranded with on this same shuttlepod at the beginning of their mission. He was more at ease around people; but an aura of mystery still surrounded him.
Trip studied the man's regular profile. He still couldn't believe Malcolm had been a covert agent. Was that how he had developed his concentration skills? He imagined that in that line of work one couldn't much afford to get distracted.
The discovery was a recent one. After a mission in which Phlox had been at risk, Trip had finally learned why Malcolm had been thrown in the brig during the Doctor's abduction, months back; about a certain Harris and the role he had played in Malcolm's life. But the info had been delivered as a few terse facts that had left Trip curious to know more. He had meant to ask Malcolm about his James Bond history sometime over a beer, but there had never seemed to be the right moment.
Now, though, even without beer...
Trip stretched his legs out in front of him and bit his lower lip. Heck, he wasn't going to sit like a dummy for hours while Malcolm worked away in silence. These were perfect circumstances for a bit of innocent snooping.
"So... how'd you get to be a covert agent, exactly?" he threw out, nonchalantly. "You promised to tell me, but you never did."
Malcolm froze in mid-action and turned to give him The Look. Well: one of the looks, at any rate.
"I don't remember promising anything," he said, narrowing his eyes as he pronounced the pivotal word.
"Okay, maybe you didn't, but… you can't just tell me you were once a spy-"
"An undercover agent."
"… and stop there!"
Raising his hands from the keyboard, Malcolm slowly swivelled his chair until he faced Trip, and there was something deliberate about the gesture, as if he were laying himself bare to scrutiny.
After four years of working in close contact with the man, Trip prided himself in being able to read him pretty well, and what he saw gave him a stab of guilt. There was no mistaking Malcolm's unsmiling expression, so at odds with his own easy tone; indeed, it was giving his lighthearted curiosity the connotation of unjustified intrusiveness. The message seemed to be, I'm your friend: isn't that all that counts?
Trip cursed inwardly. Malcolm was right, friendship didn't give him the right to pry into the man's shadows.
"Sorry. It's really none of my business," he blurted out, in an awkward attempt to back-pedal. The lack of a reply did nothing to reassure him. Nor did the fact that Malcolm averted his gaze, turning his face – and only that – back to the tactical screen, where the info clearly no longer held his attention.
"I was… caught in the middle, if you must know," Malcolm said, a slight edge to his voice. "I happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time – or," he amended as he darted a hooded look back, "the right place at the right time, depending on the perspective."
"Malcolm, really," Trip breathed out. "You don't have to." God only knew what memories he had reawakened. All he had wanted was some company; to drag the man into a bit of chatting.
"I was young and inexperienced," Malcolm went on, ignoring the tentative apology. "I had just earned my Ensign's pip."
Having – apparently – decided to share, he met Trip's gaze squarely; a soldier walking into battle. Blessedly, there seemed to be no hard feelings lurking in the murky grey, so Trip was encouraged to prompt, "Caught in the middle… of what?"
Malcolm heaved a slow, steadying sigh, which filled his lungs and straightened his posture.
"There was this Martial Arts gym in San Francisco where I used to train," he began. "And there was a bloke with whom I used to spar regularly. The man was cagey even for my own standards," he huffed out. "He'd hardly ever said more than a few words to me. But I didn't mind; he suited my requirements of a sparring partner just fine and that's all that mattered, as far as I was concerned. We'd developed a spontaneous routine of meeting twice a week."
"Didn't you use Starfleet's facilities?" Trip wondered.
"Yes, but not only." Malcolm shrugged lightly. "I've always been an independent person."
As he paused, his mind suddenly looked to be light years away.
"That evening, after sparring, we ended up going for a beer. He..." He frowned. "We ran into some rather adventurous action," he resumed, obviously skipping what he'd been going to say. "Someone wanted my sparring partner dead, and I helped him get away."
Intriguing. Trip was beginning to have an idea where his tale might be leading.
"In a matter of hours I was contacted by Harris. Turned out my sparring partner was an agent of Section 31. I had seen and heard too much. It was either in or…"
A click of the tongue said the rest.
Trip blinked. "You were forced to join?"
Malcolm shifted uneasily on his seat. "Actually, no. There were no open threats, but... Well, I'm no fool, Trip. Joining the Section was clearly my safest option. Harris said I could keep my regular Starfleet career as cover, and if truth be told…" A thick layer of self-consciousness coated his vocal chords as he quietly concluded, "It was an exciting idea."
"Exciting?"
Trip could not keep his voice from screeching with disbelief. But honestly: exciting? Maybe in Hollywood. Covert agents, as far as he was concerned, were something out of a movie. Car chases and daredevil action. He'd never quite stopped to think about real ones.
"I was young," Malcolm repeated, as if to justify himself. "Anything that swerved from the straight course had a strong appeal."
"You, transgressive? Mister By-the-book?"
Now that was even harder to believe.
"You'd be surprised." A ghost of a smile touched Malcolm's lips, if not his eyes, only to vanish a moment later as he added under his breath, "When you break free from a straightjacket you tend to want to flail your arms freely around." – whatever that meant.
At this topical moment, the comm. beeped. They exchanged a glance; Malcolm, who was closer to the link, sought a nod from his superior officer before leaving the navigation chair to answer the page. Hell – Trip mused – and he was to believe that this man, who didn't even take a damn call without deferring to rank, had once been a rebel?
"Lieutenant, the Captain asked me to inform you that, due to an approaching storm front, the away team is returning to the ship ahead of schedule," their Communication Officer said through the link. "We'll be catching up with you before too long; ETA is in about two hours."
"Acknowledged. Thank you, Ensign. Reed out."
By-the-book defined Malcolm Reed – Trip decided, as he heard the man give that proper reply. Malcolm cut off the link; only then did he lean back in the pilot's seat.
"Was it? – Exciting," Trip asked him.
Malcolm sat immobile, gazing through the windscreen at a red giant which, brighter than all the stars that surrounded it, inevitably caught your eye, and Trip let his gaze wander to it too. He'd always thought that stars were what made the all-encompassing blackness of the universe a bearable sight. Like the eyes of hope on the black face of destiny; a guiding glitter in the fog. Personally, he'd be crushed by the darkness out there, were it not for the stars.
"For a while, yes," was the eventual reply; and the terse words definitely concealed more than they reavealed.
"Sounds to me it wasn't a very long while," Trip ventured. He felt he was pressing his luck, and half expected his nosiness to precipitate a storm; instead, unexpectedly, there was a ray of sunshine. With a soft snort Malcolm broke away from the view and cast back a strange look.
"I must have lost my touch," he said in his typical dry wit. "It's unacceptable for a spy to be so transparent; something has to be done about it."
"Don't you dare slam up those shields of yours. And that's an order," Trip quipped back, grinning widely.
Flashing a smile of his own, Malcolm broke his pensive stillness and, getting up from the pilot seat, went back to the navigational console, where he peered once again at the info displayed on the screen.
"Talking of shields… Your engineering team will bloody well want to kill me," he muttered. "They'll be purging the exhaust ports for hours."
Lost my touch my foot. The damn man was doing it again, and these were his subtle diversion tactics. Trip was left wondering what Malcolm was reluctant to get into, but now that he had gained some ground, he didn't want to lose it; so he said nothing – and was rewarded for it.
"It was the lies," Malcolm said quietly, seamlessly going back to the topic he'd just as adroitly swerved away from. "That's what got to me."
"Lies? You mean the secrets?"
"I had this idea…" The grey eyes closed for a moment, not much longer than a blink. "Did you know that without the work of British intelligence, D-day, during the Second World War, could well have ended in a massacre?" he enquired offhand.
Trip gave a light shake of the head, frowning at the sudden and seemingly illogical twist. "It was a massacre."
"It could have ended differently," Malcolm rephrased. "The Nazis were made to believe the Allies would attack at Calais, and as a consequence stationed some of their troops there; the landing in Normandy encountered less resistance than it might have."
He heaved a deep breath. "Frankly I had this glorified idea of what intelligence work would be like," he said returning to his train of thought. "Classified information, state of the art equipment… And that pinch of mystery and danger to make it all the more enticing. Plus it would all be for the good of... Well, for some greater good."
He gave another soft snort, and this time it was a sound fraught with sarcasm.
The question begged asking; so Trip did.
"And instead?"
"And instead…"
Trip waited for Malcolm to continue; he didn't sound unforthcoming; this was more the trailing of someone who was looking for the right words.
"Piece by piece, you end up losing yourself," he finally began, in a careful voice. "And though it seems innocent enough at the time, it all starts when you trade your given name for a code name." The grey eyes narrowed and bore into Trip's. "Have you ever wondered what's in a name? More than just a sound," he said, answering his own question. "You may or may not like it, but the moment you have to relinquish it, you realise it's something that belongs to you. There is something of you, even in the name you carry."
"Yeah," Trip mumbled, as he pondered that philosophy. Generations of Tuckers had carried the name Charles; indeed, now that he thought of it, he did feet a special bond to it. He cocked his head. "What was your code name?"
"Not 007," was the deadpan reply, coming after a meaningful pause.
Yeah, well. Stupid question.
"But then it goes deeper than that," Malcolm resumed after a moment. His eyebrows lifted, in what looked like cynical acceptance of the inevitable. "You get so good at slipping into a fake skin that it becomes double nature. And every time you slip into a fake skin, you stifle that voice in your head that tells you you're nothing but a fraud. You teach your conscience to be blind, deaf and dumb."
Trip could tell by the way his friend pointedly avoided to look at him that there was more, and waited patiently.
"You're caught up in this… this game of pretence, this life within real life, always looking over your shoulder, because lies are… They're like those Russian dolls, they hide inside each other; and you wonder if there is ever an end to them."
Words were flowing now.
"And in that web of falsehoods, you come to realise that there is no single piece of information you can believe, or single person you can really trust."
Malcolm tightened his lips, as if to damn the flood. But, floods being unstoppable, he concluded sourly, "By that time, you're in so deep that you stop getting close to people. Anyone that approaches you is a potential danger – or you are to them. So you know you should keep away, for their sake if not for yours."
The grey eyes finally shifted to him. "Damn," was all that Trip could breathe out numbly, as he looked into them.
You had to be a pretty callous individual to like that kind of life, and this man might be many things but callous he was not. Malcolm had a strong code of honour imprinted in his DNA. That straightjacket must have been pretty tight, to make him disregard it. Also, a covert agent's life must be a hell of a lonely one – even for someone like him, who didn't go out of his way to be with people.
"Respected Starfleet officer…" the man in question muttered, his face twisting in a meaningful downward smirk.
It didn't take a genius to understand the words referred as much to the recent present, as to the past. The way the Lieutenant took things, those hours in the brig, keeping things from his Captain, would never stop weighing on his conscience, no matter what.
The crack in the ice of Malcolm's natural reserve had enlarged to a proper gap through which Trip could gaze into the dark waters beneath. But as it often happened with the man, it quickly froze over again.
"And now that you know all that, what changes?" Malcolm asked, giving him one of his narrowed-eye looks.
His immobility – something else that was probably part of a covert agent's baggage – made Trip, by reflex, fidgety. Straightening in his seat, he forced himself to acknowledge the piercing gaze that was as determined, now, to analyse him as it had been, before, to avoid him.
Malcolm's question wasn't perfunctory, and the reply that automatically came to mind – nothing – wasn't, Trip knew, the one he was expected to give. It was a defensive answer that would put him right in the category of untrustworthy individuals his friend had just been talking about. Yes, because they both knew that friendship wasn't something static; it had its highs and lows and to run the full course, like any bond, had to adjust all the time, surviving more than a few bumps in the road.
Trip bit his lip. "What you told me... some of it is quite shocking, to be honest," he said carefully. "Lying and stifling one's conscience… well, that's not the Lieutenant Reed I know, and..." A wince escaped the control he was trying to keep on his expression. "Hell, Malcolm, it's kind of weird to think that you… you know…"
Great. What an orator.
They looked at each other like two people who meet again after a long time, and study one another to seek out any subtle differences that might be there.
"But I appreciate you sharing all that with me," Trip added. "And that's the honest truth. It helps me understand you better." No wonder Malcolm had been so guarded when they'd started out on their mission. He shrugged. "I guess that's what friendship is all about: sharing and understanding."
If his words had any impact, Trip could not tell, because, abruptly, Malcolm stood up. Joining Trip in the back of the pod, he fished inside a compartment for a canteen, which he offered. Trip accepted it, aware that these were more diversion tactics; a way of redirecting the focus on something else. He took a sip and gave the canteen back.
"Under Harris, have you… ever done anything that you have regretted?" he ventured.
Swallowing a gulp of water, Malcolm slowly passed a sleeve over his mouth; he didn't shun Trip's eyes as he quietly replied, "More than once."
Trip saw the bewilderment he couldn't hide reflect as dismay on the other man's face.
"Not the kind you're thinking of," Malcolm hurried to add. "Not..."
He left the unspeakable unspoken, but it was clear to both what kind of deeds he had – blessedly – not done. Trip felt relief wash over him. Discovering that your friend had been a hired assassin would have been slightly more than a 'bump in the road' on the course of their friendship.
"Do you not believe me?" a wary voice asked, and Trip realised his mind had been wandering and silence had stretched.
"Of course I do," he said firmly.
Of course he did, he chastised himself. There was no cruel streak in the man, and the thought he might have found it acceptable to… Nah, it shouldn't have even crossed his mind.
"Do you still trust me?"
Trip blinked, struck by the subtle difference between the two questions. Malcolm looked like someone who was awaiting a sentence. He thought of the man during the time he had known him, and was relieved to find that, when all was said and done, he still thought of Malcolm as a Starfleet officer, even a soldier maybe, but he couldn't picture him as a spy.
"Trust is such a… slippery thing, isn't it?" he said very seriously. He watched the other man tense. "Look, Malcolm, all I know is… I've seen Lieutenant Reed work his butt off to build the phase cannons; battered after being interrogated by the Suliban; pinned to the hull; risk his life to help bring under control a plasma leak. I've seen him point a gun at his Commander, and disobey orders." A memory flashed through his mind and he smiled. "I've seen him in his underwear, come to think of it, tied-up in the cellar of an alien bar." Shaking his head, he concluded, "Hell, I've seen you being escorted back to the brig by two MACOS, but I've never seen you do anything that was ultimately disloyal to the ship and crew. And even after all you've just told me, I can't quite see you as a shady figure hidin' in the darkness. The man I know is not the spy; he is the other man, the Starfleet Lieutenant, and I'll trust him with my life any day."
Malcolm pursed his lips and nodded, and Trip knew that was both his 'thank you' and his 'I won't betray that trust'.
There were still questions buzzing around Trip's mind, though, and if he didn't ask them now, he knew he'd never do it. His wasn't morbid curiosity, but the need to say all that there was to be said, so that their friendship could find balance again; could be re-booted after the upgrade, so to speak. He hoped Malcolm would see that.
"There's one thing I've been wondering," he ventured. "You said you had come to realise you couldn't trust anybody. Didn't that include Harris?"
Malcolm crossed his arms tightly over his chest. "Is that a way to ask why I gave credit to the man's story, during Phlox's abduction?" he enquired hoarsely.
A huff, and the man went on to answer, once more, his own question.
"I'll never stop kicking myself for it. But Harris can be damn shrewd. Phlox had been abducted, and there he was, contacting me after all that time… He sold me his truth very well. He also knew very well what levers to pull with me; made me feel I was still bound to him by duty."
"I thought you'd broken free from him."
That was another foggy aspect: how had Malcolm managed to sever that kind of tie? Didn't sound like an easy thing to do.
"So did I." Malcolm snorted. Unfolding his arms, he recapped the canteen, which somehow he was still holding, with more force than was necessary. "According to Harris you can't break free. I've told him I want nothing to do with the Section any more, but I don't fool myself into actually believing that he'll leave me in peace."
Trip felt the shockwave of Malcolm's feelings, clipped accent and all.
"Archer offered me the position of Armoury Officer on Enterprise, and I jumped at it," the man went on, more calmly. "Harris wasn't happy, but accepted it: I'd be on a starship, light years away from Earth… He let me go – so to speak. I was convinced I was done with him."
Trip frowned; that was hardly reassuring. "Damn it, Malcolm, what if one day you have enough of deep space and want to get a job, any job, back home?"
"I'll cross that bridge when I come to it," was the philosophical reply, complete with a shrug. "What I know for sure, is that that chapter of my life is closed."
There was no trace of concern on his face, in his tone; but he was good at fooling you that way, and a nasty voice in Trip's mind suggested that the poker face was likely the greatest legacy of his days as a covert agent. Dammit, his trust in the man might be intact, but willingly or not he was looking at Malcolm with new eyes. Mind you, fear was the last emotion the man would let you perceive, and that was simply a Lieutenant Reed thing, a matter of professional training.
This Harris guy, though, didn't sound like someone who took no for an answer. Trip opened his mouth to say so; then closed it again. Tension was pulling them tight once again. A change of subject was probably for the better.
"I'm hungry," he declared out of the blue. Shifting along the bench, he reached for the compartment where ration packs were stored. A quick glance showed him that Malcolm was following his movements with wary eyes. "Well, it's almost lunch time," he explained, as a way of justification.
Taking out a few ration packs, he went through them and selected one. "Pot roast with veggies," he announced. "What'll you have? Fish and potatoes? Meatloaf? Spaghetti with meatballs?" He was determined to loosen up the mood, and there was nothing better than sharing a meal – for lack of a Bourbon bottle, of course.
Malcolm studied him for a moment longer, no doubt aware, just as Trip had been before, of the diversion tactics, but eventually decided to go along and asked, "What kind of fish?"
"Sole."
He nodded his assent, and Trip got busy heating their meals. Miracles of technology, soon they were digging into them. Or at least he was; because Malcolm only nibbled at his food half-heartedly. The man's pensive mood was hard to ignore, and began to weigh on Trip's conscience. He was the one who had dug all that up.
Setting down his fork, he passed a hand through his hair. "I shouldn't have asked you about you past," he said with a wince. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to drag up bad memories."
Malcolm mulled the words for a moment before countering, "No, it's okay. If truth be told, it was high time I shared that with someone." The grey eyes came up, deep. "It's that… There's something that has bugged me for years," he said thoughtfully. "A doubt I can't shake off and… Well, you did drag that up again."
"The guy you used to spar with? You think you were set up?"
Surprise flickered on Malcolm's face. Trip made his eyebrows dance. "Did I ever tell you I'm a mind reader?"
"That's hardly reassuring," Malcolm said deadpan. He narrowed his eyes pensively. "He asked me to join him for a beer, that night. We'd never socialised before. And that attack… We got away a bit too easily." Rubbing a hand on his jaw, he concluded, "I never asked Harris outright. I suppose I didn't want to face the fact that I fell right into his trap."
"Well, if you ask me Harris doesn't sound like someone who'd ever tell you, anyway."
The comm. buzzed again, diverting their attention. Trip set his plate aside, got up and went to answer it. Archer's voice filled the pod with refreshing cheerfulness.
"Don't you guys ever get tired of finding trouble and having to be rescued?"
"Of course not, Capt'n," Trip replied easily. "But Sir, are you trying to wreck my engine? Hoshi said two hours."
"Of course not, Commander," Archer echoed. A chuckle floated back through the link. "Travis, see if you can catch us our Chief Engineer and Armoury Officer," he was heard instructing.
Malcolm joined Trip at the front of the pod; and they both watched Enterprise come into view. A moment later there was the thud of grappler lines attaching themselves to the hull, and the small vessel began to be reeled in.
"Isn't she a beauty?" Trip breathed out, as the ship got closer and closer. The launchbay doors were opening, to welcome them back.
Silence made him cast a look at the man beside him. It wasn't often that emotion choked Malcolm's words in his throat, but Trip could tell it was the case now. At the light of what Trip had learned, Enterprise must indeed be something special for his friend. A dream come true, but also a sanctuary.
"She is," Malcolm finally agreed, in that low voice of his. "And I feel privileged to serve on her."
Trip shifted his eyes back ahead where they wouldn't make Malcolm self-conscious about his emotions.
"Welcome back," Archer's back-to-business voice sounded once again, through the intercom, after they had left the pod. "You have no decon to go through, so I expect you to report to my ready room in ten minutes, gentlemen."
"Aye, Capt'n." Trip replied for the both of them. He turned to give Malcolm a roll of the eyes. "Come on, Lieutenant. The boss is callin'."
Malcolm acknowledged the words with a smile. He stepped aside and let Trip go first. "And then there's work to do," he said. "I might have already figured out a way to prevent the problem we encountered with the stronger shields. Mind if I come by Engineering later on?"
Trip cast a look his way. When the hell had the man had the time to think of that, in the middle of all that talking? But the change that had come about Malcolm after they had stepped back on Enterprise was quite something. Sorry Harris, but Starfleet is definitely his life.
"Trip?"
"That'd be great," Trip stuttered.
And they walked down the corridor towards the turbo lift.
THE END
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