Beta read by RoaringMice to whom goes, as usual, my grateful thanks

"Need any help?"

On his haunches, Trip swivelled to cast the newcomer a look. It had only been a few minutes since he'd sent his men on their way so that he could be in here alone with his thoughts, and now... He met the eyes of the man standing at the hatch. Malcolm wasn't likely to be here because he particularly wanted to work after shift – God knew that like most of the crew he had put in enough extra hours in the past few weeks. No, Malcolm was here for him; and though Trip appreciated the gesture, he wasn't in the mood for talking.

"Trip?"

Then again, it was only three weeks before they were due in at Azati Prime, which was almost certainly like saying the end of the line. With that in mind, it seemed a shame to refuse the company of a friend. Malcolm, after all, was a taciturn man: silence should suit him just fine.

"If you've got nothin' better to do," Trip drawled, with a shrug. And he turned back to his job.

Building the fake shuttle had been a lot more interesting than taking it apart was proving to be.

He'd been charged with positive energy, then. It had given him something exciting to do, something concrete on which to focus, which might give them the breakthrough they'd been looking for; 'cause they'd been pretty well groping in the dark as to where the weapon was being built. Well, their efforts hadn't been for nothing: they had tricked Degra all right, and he had betrayed himself. Now they were finally on the right course.

"What do you want me to do?"

Realising Malcolm was still standing there waiting for orders, Trip muttered 'anythin' you like' and threw him a spanner, which the man caught swiftly in mid-air.

"Not bad, considerin'," Trip commented.

"Considering what?"

The tone was between the puzzled and the affronted. Trip rolled his eyes. God forbit the proud Lieutenant should take the words as criticism of his prowess. How many extra shifts have you worked in the past few weeks, you dumbo, he wanted to say; but because he was too tired to spell out the obvious, he repeated deadpan, "Considerin'," leaving Malcolm to figure out the rest.

The grey eyes narrowed to a pin. Given enough time, they would undoubtedly drill a hole in his brain and read his thoughts, which was why Malcolm was here; and Trip definitely didn't want that. He swept out a hand. "Come in. Take your pick. It all has to come apart."

Malcolm slowly entered, looking around with the curiosity of someone who is seeing something for the first time. Now that Trip thought of it, it probably was the first time he saw the small vessel; at least from the inside. The Malosian shuttle they had created was supposed to have been a cargo ship, hence no weapons; hence Malcolm had taken no part in designing it. And when they had put it to good use the Lieutenant had been manning the Bridge, keeping an eye on the effects of the debris field's radiation on Enterprise's systems.

"Impressive," the man huffed out.

"Coming from the person who'd doubted we'd be able to build something believable, I'll take it as a compliment."

"I didn't doubt, I only said that..." Malcolm paused; then, shaking his head, he concluded, "Well, it doesn't matter. You did a great job."

"I was greatly motivated."

Trip heard the darkness that these days lurked not so deep inside him spill into his voice; felt his vocal chords tighten and his face reshape to that unyielding expression that was becoming a bit too comfortable – his own, even – and felt he had to temper his reaction; so he added, "I didn't do it alone." It won him another close look.

"I'd expect you not to do it alone also now that you must take it apart," Malcolm carefully commented. "Not to mention that the Chief Engineer is hardly the right person to spend time doing such menial work."

Oh, no. Trip wasn't going to be dragged into a discussion about why he was here alone. He uttered an inarticulate grunt meant to discourage any further elucubrations. He should've sent Malcolm away too. Busying himself with the panel he'd been taking apart, he studiously avoided the grey gaze, determined to look unavailable for a chat. For a while it worked. He heard the other man blow out a breath, and then the sound of tools being used. An unobtrusive glance over his shoulder told him the Lieutenant had decided to tackle a storage compartment.

Minutes ticked by, and eventually the lack of conversation began to feel contrived. Trip's old self would've never kept his mouth shut around a friend for more than a few seconds. But there you had it: that was the Trip Tucker of old. That probe hadn't only cut short the lives of seven million people; it had created a rift in the lives of those left behind: a before and after. Before the attack and after the attack. After the attack, things were different – he was different. It was as if the heat of that probe had twisted him into a deformed copy of himself. He had changed in ways that he had yet to understand. For one, he seemed to have developed a taste for solitude – something he never thought he would. There were times, like now, when he had to admit he was an downright unsociable grouch.

Malcolm suddenly cleared his throat, interrupting his musings, and whatever part of Trip's old self had survived was relieved to hear him break the silence.

"Bloody vorteces," the Lieutenant said in that deep, scratchy voice he sometimes could produce, one of the ways you could glimpse at his feelings, which as a rule he kept well-locked inside. "I'm losing sleep over them."

Trip stopped and turned: Malcolm's usually imperturbable gaze gleamed with unbridled anxiousness, and his own concern shot up a few notches. The situation was dreary enough without Malcolm losing his cool. He wasn't supposed to: wasn't it written in his damn job description? There ought to be a line or two saying that an Armoury Officer wasn't to show concern, for any reason and under any circumstance, ever.

"It would've been nice to wrest some information about them from that engineer," Malcolm went on, accent made sharp by the intensity of his feelings – or perhaps by the fact that confiding in people wasn't something he did on a daily basis.

Suddenly it occurred to Trip that he had read the situation all wrong: the man wasn't here for him; he was here to use him as a soundboard: the self-sufficient Lieutenant Reed had come to seek a friendly ear – help. As the notion deposited itself as yet another weight on his heart, he blurted out mechanically, "They use some kind of phase deflector pulses," which was as far as they had got toward understanding the damn process; but of course Malcolm already knew that; indeed, he winced in frustration at this useless piece of info.

"Yeah, but how in the bloody hell they..."

He tightened his lips in a gesture that spoke more eloquently than any words; then blew out another breath, in which floated a sea of tiredness. Trip could sympathise with that. Thanks to his nightmares, he and sleep were on very unfriendly terms these days.

"Do you realise that at any moment a Xindi ship – or fleet, for that matter – could be on our doorstep, unannounced?" Malcolm complained. With a mirthless snort, he concluded, "Bloody brilliant. How am I supposed to be ready for that?"

Pessimism wasn't Trip's cup of tea on the best of days; but right now, with his own raw feelings to contend with, it was more than he could take. "That isn't true," he snapped. "That distortion in subspace gave you a fair amount of advance notice."

"Fair amount," Malcolm echoed sarcastically. "Is anything fair in all this?" And before Trip could even open his mouth to reply, he went on, "Unfortunately we don't always detect a distortion before a Xindi ship pops out of nowhere. Unfortunately-"

"Look," Trip cut him short, "I don't care about your unfortunatelies. All I care about is getting to that weapon and blowing it up: let's focus on that."

His voice had not risen above a tense rumble, but he found himself out of breath as if he had been shouting. The anger, the hatred, were taking his oxygen away. Having on board the man who had designed the weapon that had killed Elizabeth, seeing his face, hearing him speak, had plunged him into new abysses. He had managed to act professionally when every atom of his being had wanted to jump inside that shuttle and throttle Degra. But keeping in control, keeping things off his face had cost him, and now all that accumulated pressure was begging to be released. He should acknowledge his emotions; face them. He wanted to and at the same time he didn't, because some of them hurt even to consider... But that's why he was here doing menial work, wasn't it? To fathom his feelings, even the unthinkable ones. Because there were always different points of view to anything, and that was a devastating thought in itself. Maddening, damning, shattering.

The easiest thing to do was to take things out on someone else. Before he could think twice he spat out, "What have you come here for, anyway? I have no need for your grim reaper attitude."

Trip didn't need to look at Malcolm to know that his arrow had found the mark. He hadn't thrown him the grim reaper insult since that mission in Shuttlepod One, but then they hadn't been friends. Regret immediately washed over him, and he raked a despondent hand through his hair.

"Look, I'm sorry," he mumbled, daring a glance that Malcolm didn't acknowledge. "You know I didn't really mean that."

"You did mean it. But it doesn't matter," was the quiet reply.

"Of course it matters. Don't pretend it doesn't. I-"

"You're quite right," Malcolm cut him off. He flicked Trip an awkward glance. "I'm being my old pessimistic self. It must be the tiredness."

"Yeah."

They started working again in a rather uncomfortable silence. But yes, they were exhausted, and that had to count for something, right?

As Trip applied a screwdriver to the frame of the communications panel to prise it off, his sight blurred, and his mind conjured up the image of Degra's fingers punching in that frequency code. The scredriver slipped, and he hissed a curse.

"You okay?"

"It's nothing."

"Let me see."

"Dammit, Malcolm, are you deaf?"

Trip watched Malcolm freeze in mid-action and hold his glare for a moment; then undauntedly shift his gaze to the injury. "Your nothing is bleeding," he said with quiet resolve.

The cut was not deep but was bleeding all right. With a resigned sigh Trip swivelled in his seat, and offered his limb for inspection. Malcolm approached tentatively, much like he would a wild animal that might react unpredictably, and checked the wound.

"Lovely," he said, eyebrows shooting up briefly. He produced a handkerchief and pressed it on the injury. "Let's take you to Phlox."

"Nah."

They may well be in a fake Shuttle but it was fully equipped. Retaking possession of his hand, Trip got up and strode to get the first-aid kit from a storage compartment. As he fumbled with its latch, it was taken out of his hands. Malcolm got the disinfectant and broke the seal to a pack of sterile gauze. Trip watched numbly as he cleaned the cut, getting his fingers bloodied. Archer too had got his fingers bloodied when he had removed Phlox's bloodworm from Degra's arm. His fingers had dripped with a murderer's blood.

Damn. If only he could let go, be miles away, forget, get temporary amnesia, or even permanent amnesia… But no, his mind wasn't leaving him alone: he was in a loop, and running away was no use. That's why he had come here. To face things.

"He touched these buttons, sat on that chair, breathed this same air," he said through a clenched jaw. "I don't know how the Capt'n could stand to…" The knot in his throat got too big, and he broke off before his voice cracked.

Malcolm's eyes flicked briefly up from the job. "Captain Archer did what he had to," he said, vocal chords barely vibrating; and reached for a band-aid.

Trip swallowed past the knot. "He was able to treat him like… an acquaintance, almost a friend."

His voice quivered with that something fierce that burned in his breast, but who the hell cared. Malcolm had seen worse from him, during that Shuttlepod mission gone awry.

"He wasn't so involved on a personal level," the Lieutenant countered levelly. "Didn't lose anyone in the attack."

"He drank with him; touched him, got that murderer's blood on his fingers."

As Malcolm pressed the bandage in place he looked up, and this time his eyes stayed with Trip, steady, a safety line to the man lost at sea.

"I didn't see any of that happen, but I don't expect the Captain found it easy – or enjoyable."

"Of course not," Trip snapped. "That's not what I'm sayin'."

It was true – he mused grimly – Malcolm hadn't been there. He hadn't seen the Captain and Degra on that screen; hadn't heard the Xindi's distrust slowly melt away under Archer's cunning chisel work. Hadn't fretted at Degra's words, hadn't felt the bile rise. And Malcolm hadn't lost anyone in the attack. He couldn't possibly understand.

"You don't understand," he said, his thoughts spilling out against his will. The words hung for a brief moment in the silence.

"You're right," Malcolm replied, with a frown. "No one can." He lowered his gaze to the med-kit as he closed it with a deliberate gesture; then, just as deliberately, looked back up. His eyes said, What can I do to help? Trip didn't know. Maybe there was nothing he could do to help.

"You know when they say 'a heart of stone'?" Trip passed a finger over the recently-applied bandage, wincing at the soreness. "I thought it was just an expression. I thought that I, of all people, would never... But it's happened. I've got this hard, heavy thing where my heart used to be, and I don't think I want it to soften, ever more."

The grey eyes studied him, and after a moment Malcolm asked, "What did Degra say?"

He was still holding the med-kit but making no move to put it away. The smoke in his voice matched the wariness in his gaze, but his undivided focus was on him, Trip, and Trip sensed he had debated long and hard before venturing to ask the question. He had put the finger on it, all right. Malcolm, the man people thought all rules and discipline and no insight, had intuited the core of the problem. Trip wasn't very surprised, actually; he had long known that one-piece exterior hid a sensitive core.

"He said…" He bit his lip, teetering on the fine edge of indecision. Saying things aloud was a step too close to acknowledging them. "He said things I didn't expect nor want to hear," he finally admitted.

"Like what?" Malcolm insisted.

Trip passed a rough hand through his hair. His muscles tightened and he croaked out, "He talked about his children. About how he'd have done anythin' to protect them, after they'd learned of Earth's threat." He closed his eyes and continued, his voice now tightening too, "He talked about seein' the telemetry from the probe coming in, and wondering how many of those seven million dead would be children."

"Bloody bastard. Should've thought about that earlier," Malcolm cursed darkly.

"I saw the Capt'n choke back his anger. I wanted to break inside the shuttle and kill Degra with my own two hands, but instead I had to stand there, lookin' on and hearin' his voice, and..." Trip paused. God, this was difficult. "And I couldn't ignore the fact that when he said those things he sounded... sincerely troubled." He met Malcolm's gaze, openly showing his anguished confusion. "If there was a threat, what would we do to protect our families, our race? How far would we go?" Words were flowing now. "And then I felt I was betrayin' my sister and all those seven million if I allowed myself even to consider Degra's point of view. And then I resented the Captain, because he was so quick to put his feelings aside and slip back into the role, actin' Degra's friend. And then I hated myself for that, 'cause as you said he was only doin' what he had to, and I oughtta be grateful instead of..." Trip blinked against the stinging that was starting behind his eyes. "Dammit." He cast a look around. "I thought that coming here might help me sort things out, get them out of my system, but now all I know is that I don't want to let go of my heart of stone, and that's..." He could not finish.

Through his blurred sight, Trip watched Malcolm finally break eye contact, and go to replace the med-kit in its locker. It was a silly thing to do, considering the shuttle was coming apart, but the man probably wanted to give him a chance to regroup; or maybe needed the time to pause, to reflect. Either way, Trip was grateful for the moment of privacy, which allowed him to wipe a quick hand over his eyes, which threatened to overflow.

Closing the locker, Malcolm left his hand to linger on it for a moment, pensively. "If we were told of a species threatening Earth I don't believe for one minute we'd build a weapon of mass destruction, Trip." He turned, shaking his head, mouth curved downward in a firm expression. "We would build defences, and try every diplomatic channel to avert the attack. We would go to war, if that failed; but we wouldn't build a weapon meant to annihilate an alleged enemy and, especially, we wouldn't pre-emptively fire it on the defenceless population." His tone hardened as he added, "Degra can sound sincerely troubled all he wants, but he remains a bloody murderer in my book."

"But he isn't us," Trip snarled. He wasn't making much sense, or enough sense, but he forged ahead in cold fury, "I hate Degra with every ounce of my being, and even more his supposed pangs of conscience. Dammit, his words keep battering my brain like a ram wanting to open a breach into its barricades, and the last thing I want is for that to happen."

Malcolm narrowed his eyes. He said firmly, "What d'you mean, he isn't us: I don't care what he is. Being Xindi and not Human doesn't make him less guilty. The truth is one and one alone, and it's that killing millions of innocent people and planning to wipe out an entire planet is a barbarous act. It is so under any circumstances and for any bloody species in the whole wide universe." He huffed out a breath. "Even Gralik, that Arboreal scientist, was shocked at the idea; shocked enough to help us, and sabotage the last kemocite delivery."

There wasn't a speck of uncertainty in his voice. Certainties were exactly what Trip needed, and he was grateful for the beacon through the fog of his mind.

Slowly, Malcolm walked to the pilot's seat and passed a light hand over the instruments. He seemed so entirely focused on the fake console that it was unexpected when he murmured, "Stone is hard and unyielding; unlike flesh, it doesn't hurt – can't be hurt." Turning abruptly, he frowned. "But actually I don't believe your heart has turned to stone, Trip. It has shielded itself in armour, because right now it cannot take any more injuries." His lips tightened for a brief moment. "Armour might feel as hard and heavy as stone but can be removed; and sooner or later I have little doubt that it will come off."

It would be nice to be sure about that, Trip mulled, passing a weary hand over his face.

"And if the ship's pessimist tells you so, you can believe it."

Trip winced. "Ah, look, I should've never-"

"One's nature is one's nature," Malcolm quickly put in. "I'll never really be an optimist, no matter how hard I try. And I doubt you'll ever be a cold, spiteful bastard, even if right now you might feel like one."

"I don't know," Trip countered darkly. "Since the attack I've been... different."

"Give yourself a bit of time. You'll find your true self again."

Trip unexpectedly felt a chuckle bubble up. Three years ago he had boarded Enterprise as the Captain's buddy, and now, when he most needed a friend, it was one Malcolm Reed – a man he had once dismissed as a social misfit – who was coming to his rescue. He noticed a frown crease the Lieutenant's brow. Malcolm must be wondering if he was losing it; and maybe he was, because now a sudden knot was tightening his throat again, stifling his chuckle. Damn, but he missed Jon's friendship. As good a friend as Malcolm was proving to be, Jon had been his buddy.

"Trip?"

Trip acknowledged the wary grey gaze. "I'm okay." He forced a smile. "Really."

They lapsed into silence for a moment; then Malcolm pulled on his neck. "Let's get some rest. This..." – he looked around – "can wait till tomorrow."

It wasn't a bad idea. Better than staying up late and making himself miserable. "Yeah," Trip agreed. He pushed off the bulkhead and went through the hatch without another look around. Let his confusion remain inside this shuttle.

As they walked down the corridor, Trip wondered once again why Malcolm had come to find him. Maybe his first feeling hadn't been wrong after all. He wouldn't put it past the Lieutenant to pretend being concerned about the vorteces and in need of a friendly ear, whereas he'd really come to check on him. Malcolm, after all, was a master tactician. But whatever reason had brought him, Trip was glad he hadn't sent him away as he'd been about to.

They got to the turbo-lift.

"We don't have much time left." Trip saw Malcolm's puzzlement and went on, "You said I oughtta give myself a bit of time; that I'd find myself again. But Azati Prime isn't that far away, and I doubt I'll find myself before then."

"Azati Prime isn't necessarily going to be the end."

The lift doors opened, but Trip didn't go in. "Do you really believe that?" He wanted to add, you, the inveterate pessimist? but he didn't want to hurt Malcolm's feelings any further.

A telling shadow passed over Malcolm's face. He averted his gaze, but too late. "The odds are rather against us," he finally admitted.

"Thanks," Trip said quietly, when the doors had already closed behind them and the lift was taking them to B deck.

Malcolm flicked him a look. "What for?"

"For not treating me with kid gloves, like someone who should be shielded from the truth."

"The truth," Malcolm huffed out. "Who knows what destiny awaits us at Azati Prime. Our demise is only one possible scenario. Never underestimate the power of despair, and..." His eyebrows lifted. "Well, my pessimistic forecasts have been proven wrong before."

Yes, that time in Shuttlepod One Malcolm had believed them doomed, and instead, against all odds, they had survived. Trip sighed. "Well then, thank you for coming to find me; for helping me try to sort myself out."

"Any time."

They exited the lift and it wasn't long before they stopped at Trip's door.

"I'm afraid my reason for coming to you wasn't as altruistic as you think, though," Malcolm said in a throaty voice. "I wanted to..." He winced. "I was looking for some company; lately I've been unsettled myself."

So it was that after all.

"Who hasn't."

Trip picked at the bandage on his injured hand, his thoughts suddenly going to the day they had launched to bring Klang back home. Their future had been an exciting adventure; now it was a bleak question mark. Well, this might be their last mission, but they had to make it count.

He raised steely eyes on Malcolm. "I don't really care what will happen to us, as long as we destroy that weapon. That's all I care about. Let's not fail, Lieutenant."

Malcolm straighened his shoulders. "I'll do my best. You can be sure of that."

They nodded to each other, and parted without another word. There was nothing else to say. Trip stood looking as Malcolm continued down the corridor towards his quarters, lingering on his threshold till the man had disappeared around the bend; then he fingered his door open. The room was dark, and his gaze was drawn to the porthole and the stars strewing by. It had once been a soothing sight, but now all that vast infinity made him feel small and fragile. He forced his eyes away, and they fell on the bed. Another restless night awaited him here in this room, all alone with his demons and his nightmares. He should escape this torture chamber. Anywhere on the ship would be better than here.

But it was late, and tomorrow was another day, and he was a senior Officer, the Chief Engineer, and Archer and the crew counted on him, Earth counted on him, and they were finally on the right track...

Trip switched on the light and shuffled in.

THE END

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