This latest addition to my Friend In Need series has a twin... it's called 2744586. IchthusFish and I both had plot bunnies based on the episode Similitude, so we decided to post together. Hope you'll enjoy both stories and will leave a review. I know IchthusFish has promised cookies... so I'll add a cup of coffee, or tea (for all you Malcolm fans out there) :-)

Grateful thanks to RoaringMice for beta reading

Malcolm's gaze shifted of its own accord and, not for the first time, rested on a set of pips.

Malcolm had not quite been prepared for the flood of emotion that had hit him when he'd seen Trip, his friend Trip, standing near the torpedo casing that contained the body of his clone, Sim. It was the first time he was seeing the two side by side and it was, not unexpectedly, a shocking sight. Even more so because now that Sim was dressed in a Starfleet uniform, only three small pieces of metal distinguished Trip from his exact copy: the three pips that Malcolm's gaze kept seeking, as if he unconsciously needed to remind himself who of the two identical men was the one standing and breathing, and who the one lying inert in the makeshift casket.

Indeed, not long before it had been Trip lying unconscious, and Malcolm's brain – or was it his heart? The two were warring at the moment – seemed to have a hard time grasping the fact that things had capsized. Well, too much had happened in too little time: it was no surprise he felt so scrambled.

Forcing his eyes to shift from Trip's shoulder to his face, Malcolm thought that, under a slight frown, his friend looked numb. Against all logic he almost envied him. He suspected numb would be better than destabilised, which was how he himself felt. His 'comfort zone' lay within the boundaries of things like order, rules, honour; and the creation of a clone for spare parts had thrown him off balance. His brain told him that it went against all of those principles, yet his heart wasn't quite as certain. Every time he glanced at Trip and then his clone he was seized by a feeling of liberation rivalled by one just as strong of failure, and not knowing which of the two he should heed made him almost light-headed with confusion.

Archer was in the middle of his speech. Malcolm mulled it was just as well he couldn't focus on it. Words! Empty or meaningful as they may be, he doubted anything the Captain was saying could help him come to terms with his unease.

The moment finally came to close the casing and jettison it. Malcolm went throught the steps quickly and to all appearances with appropriate professionalism, but his heart was heavy. The man inside that casket had not only willingly sacrificed his life to save Trip's, but devised a plan to save all of theirs. They – he – owed him. Sim might have lived but a few days but in that short span had managed to earn his respect, if not his outright friendship; and not just because he was so uncannily like Enterprise's Chief Engineer – in fact, more like in spite of it.

Clenching his jaw, Malcolm watched the casing as it was abandoned to the uncaring stars. He cast a glance at Trip, and then at Archer. While Trip's face was still inexpressive, the Captain's was impenetrably hard, and Malcolm wondered if the man hoped that the cold vastness of space would carry away not only Sim's body but his own pangs of conscience. He seriously doubted Archer would ever be able to forget how far he had bent his ethics to try and save Earth. Or had saving Earth been, perhaps even unconsciously, an excuse to be able to do what he done in order to save his best friend?

And then it was over. People began to file out of the Armoury – that Armoury which was beginning to serve a bit too often as a place for last farewells – and Malcolm watched Trip walk away in a daze. He felt his heart go out to him. He should go after him, but his feet were anchored to the ground. Closing his eyes briefly, he turned around and went to his console, where he spent the next few hours trying in vain to concentrate on anything but what they'd just been through.

It almost midnight when Malcolm finally stopped in front of Trip's door.

He had crossed paths with him a few times during the day, and it had been quite obvious that the man wasn't his usual self. Well, it was to be expected. Malcolm had wanted to say something, but he hadn't known exactly what; words seemed so inadequate; so he had said nothing. Worse; he had behaved as if nothing had happened, even when the awkwardness between them had belied all pretences of normality.

But going to his own quarters that evening after staying on duty for as long as his feet could hold him upright, Malcolm had felt a heavy weight upon his conscience. He had tried to dismiss it, hiding behind the weak excuse that he'd never been good at talking to people, but the gnawing had only grown more insufferable. It wouldn't leave him alone; so in the end he had put aside the book he had been trying in vain to read, and dragged himself over to his friend's room. He might not be able to help Trip, but perhaps he could silence the nagging voice that made him feel like a heartless bastard.

Malcolm raised his hand and pressed the bell before his resolve failed and he changed his mind. The moment he heard the sound, he told himself it was late for a visit. He had a sudden flashback of the time he'd tried to offer Trip comfort after Elizabeth's death, of how it had felt being on the receiving end of his anger, and almost hoped his call wouldn't be answered. He wasn't keen on experiencing that again. Barely had he formulated the thought, though, that the door slid open. Perhaps a visit had been expected.

A look at Trip was enough to reassure him at least of the fact that he hadn't woken the man up: he was still in uniform and seemed fully awake. Something flitted across the Engineer's features, something vaguely akin to disappointment. Then his expression became blank.

"What is it?" he enquired flatly.

Not what you'd call a warm welcome.

Malcolm forced himself to hold his friend's uncommunicative gaze. "I… couldn't sleep," he said, finding his voice. He looked away briefly, before locking gaze again with a pair of blue eyes that seemed to have lost all of their spirit but not their capacity to bore into him. "And I thought you might… like some company." He had wanted to say need, but that telling little word didn't make it past the barriers of his ingrained restraint.

There was a silence. That damn awkwardness again, which made Malcolm's heart clench. Trip couldn't do this to him: encourage him to open up, make him come out his shell and then, just when he felt comfortable and safe, turn a cold shoulder. Was the understanding he thought he shared with this one person a lie?

Clamping down on his emotions, he gave a tight smile that wasn't really a smile and scampered under the well-worn cloak of propriety. "I apologise," he said quietly. "I ought to have realised it's late and you must be tired."

As he was about to turn away, though, Trip's icy mask marginally crumpled, allowing him to catch a glimpse of the torment behind it. It froze him in place.

"Trip…" he croaked out, his control slipping. The rest couldn't find a way into words, but at long last true communication flashed between them. "Let me in," Malcolm heard himself say, voice veiled with concern.

Trip blinked; a second later he stumbled aside without a sound, and Malcolm heaved a silent sigh of relief. He knew this is where he had to be right now, hard as it might be.

Malcolm walked to the circle of light that illuminated Trip's desk, then turned to face his friend. He winced inwardly at the sight of the quiet and still shape holding back in the darker part of the room, leaning against the closed door. If he had - perhaps unconsciously - hoped that he could help Trip just by listening to him, it was clear it wouldn't happen. The man was obviously waiting for him to do the speaking, and it was no secret Reeds were much better at guarding silence than filling it.

Malcolm shot a wary glance at the immobile figure. "It has been a trying day - "

"A trying day? Now that's somethin' new... 'Cause up to now our mission in the Expanse has been a real picnic."

Trip's face was in shadow, and although there had been a hint of sarcasm in his voice the words had been spoken rather more flatly than their meaning would have warranted. So this was it. Trip had no intention of acknowledging his feelings. Like after Elizabeth's death, when he had pretended that his sister had been just like any other of the seven million killed in the Xindi attack.

Malcolm stalled. He shouldn't let his friend hide behind this lie, yet he didn't want to provoke another outburst: the first one still stung. He pursed his lips, looking for a tactful way to say what needed to be said.

"Our mission hasn't been easy, that is true, but this experience has been… difficult in a different way, on a more personal level," he finally managed, keeping his voice quiet and non-confrontational. He braced himself and added, "You'll only hurt yourself by denying it."

To his relief, there was no explosion of anger but just a soft, mirthless huff.

"Hurt myself?" Trip asked wearily. "That'd be nice, actually, just to feel something, because I… I can't feel a damn thing and it's gotten kind of disturbing." He looked toward Malcolm but the shadows hid his eyes. "Looking at my dead double in a coffin oughtta be enough to arouse a few of those overwhelming human emotions T'Pol finds so annoyin'."

He pushed off the door, and in the soft glow of the dimmed lights his features looked ashen.

"I can't believe what's happened," he stammered on. "Last I remember I'm flyin' off the warp engine, and then I wake up in sickbay a week later to find that I'm alive only because…" His voice finally broke.

Malcolm passed a hand through his hair, feeling unnervingly out of his depth. "Why don't you come and sit down," he said gently.

Stumbling forward, Trip obediently complied and went to his bunk. Despite his pretended numbness, he looked quite rattled, and Malcolm wondered briefly if he shouldn't insist on walking him to sickbay, but just as quickly dismissed the idea. The place, with its memories, was definitely to be avoided. In fact that was probably why Phlox had let the Engineer out of his clutches so quickly.

As Trip sat slowly down, he shot Malcolm an enigmatic look. "How was he?" he asked hesitantly. A cautious curiosity appeared to crack the impassive expression.

Malcolm stared back at him, his brain drawing a blank. Bloody good question…

"Who was he?" Trip continued, when silence stretched. "Was he another… me?" Frowning, he shook his head. "He had my face, my body -- hell, my birth marks…"

"I wish I knew the right answer," Malcolm replied, his eyebrows shooting up briefly. The truth was he was probably as confused as Trip. But this is what he was here for, after all, wasn't he? To help both of them understand, to try and find answers to their questions.

He licked his lips. "He wasn't you, Trip," he stammered, stating the obvious. Well, he had to start from somewhere, and that much, at least, seemed certain.

Trip was still looking intently at him.

"Sim had his own memories," Malcolm continued, striving to analyse the situation with a logical mind.

"But mine as well."

It wasn't a question, and Malcolm gave Trip a surprised look. He hadn't thought he'd know that. It wasn't long since the man had been back on his feet. But, he realised, the Captain and/or Phlox would have explained things. The thought actually brought a new understanding of what Trip probably wanted to hear from him. He wouldn't be so much interested in the technicalities as in his – the crew's – reactions and feelings.

Taking the desk chair, Malcolm let himself fall limply onto it. His body ached with a week's worth of tiredness. Well, with the ship trapped, rest had been a luxury that -- Ah, hell, who was he trying to fool? He had deliberately pushed himself to the limit so that he wouldn't have the time or the energy to think. And tension had done the rest.

"No earlier than a few days ago Sim was… only a baby," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes. He re-opened them to find Trip's still fixed on him. "You were a lovable child," he breathed out, letting the corners of his mouth turn up ever so slightly.

"Sim was a lovable child," Trip corrected him pointedly. "You just said he wasn't me."

Malcolm's already wan smile fell altogether. "Right," he mumbled.

There was a long silence.

"But there was some of me in him," Trip suddenly blurted out, in a taut voice. "He remembered my parents, my dog, my sister… how could he not be me?" he asked almost in anguish.

Once again, Malcolm was surprised at the amount of information Trip had gathered on his clone. "How do you know all these things?" he couldn't stop himself from asking.

Trip shot him a quick glance. "Phlox told me," he said tersely, and Malcolm was sure he had detected a note of bitterness in the words. Had Archer not spoken to him?

Narrowing his eyes, Malcolm lost himself in a series of memories: one, of the Denobulan Doctor gently holding a baby, lingered in his mind. "Phlox was like a father to him," he murmured, as if to himself. "I believe he is the one who suffered the most when…" He caught himself at the last moment and stole a look, afraid of what he'd read on his friend's face, but nothing clear appeared on it. Trip was still studying him closely.

"Not the Captain?" he asked in a flat voice.

Malcolm frowned, noticing Trip hadn't used the shortened nickname form as he usually did.

"Not the Captain what?" he echoed to buy time, contrasting emotions warring in his breast. He had blessed Archer and cursed him a few times over, during the past few days, and still wasn't sure if he was more mad at him or grateful for what he had done. It was easy, after all, to criticise his decision; but what would he have done in his position? He had asked himself that, and hadn't found an answer.

"Was a father to him, suffered the most?" Trip repeated, pinning him with dark and challenging eyes.

Under such a close scrutiny whatever he said would have to be the truth, Malcolm realised; and for once he didn't like it. The mixed feelings he felt towards the Captain at the moment risked tinting his answers, and he didn't want to say anything that would unnecessarily put the man in a bad light. Trip's friendship with Archer had been under strain recently, and his friend didn't need more on his mind right now. Yet Malcolm couldn't see how it was possible to play down Archer's part in what had happened.

He paused and searched his heart for some 'comfortable' truth.

"The Captain felt… quite uneasy around Sim," he eventually said, in a careful voice. Looking up from the floor, where his gaze had strayed, he saw Trip waiting for him to continue.

"I can't in all honesty blame him," he went on, sounding protective to his own ears. "It was… odd, to say the least."

Trip's eyes were riveted on him: the man looked to be weighing his every word.

"We all felt somewhat awkward around Sim, except…"

"Even T'Pol?"

Malcolm almost frowned in puzzlement, managing with an effort to hide his reaction. "I believe so, yes," he answered. "Phlox and Hoshi were perhaps the only ones who didn't, or did to a lesser extent," Malcolm continued after a pause. "They took care of Sim when he was a baby and then a child, and that helped them develop a familiarity, I suppose."

"The Captain didn't?" Trip insisted. It was painfully clear that he wanted to know how Archer had acted around Sim, what role he had played in his short life: if he had just been a cold-blooded Dr. Frankenstein or had let his humanity come through.

Malcolm shifted in his chair. "The Captain… Captain Archer was… too involved to get close to Sim," he said, his voice veiled with uncertainty.

Well, how could Archer have developed a bond with a being he had created for spare parts, especially after discovering that, to serve that purpose, the clone would have to accept cutting his already short life even shorter? Malcolm knew, in fact, that not only had Archer not got close to Sim, but the two had had issues after it had become clear that Sim wouldn't survive the operation to harvest his brain tissue. That, however, was not something Malcolm was ready to tell his friend.

"And he had his hands full, we were in the middle of a critical situation," Malcolm continued, realising again that he was unconsciously trying to justify the Captain for Trip's sake. "But he did spend time with the boy. He let him play with Porthos, taught him to fly a model spaceship which I was told he had built with his father."

Trip blinked. "The Capt'n is very attached to that. Never lets anyone touch it." He frowned, adding softly as if to himself, "Must have felt he had to make something up to him."

Damn right, Malcolm mulled. And if there was any truth in the rumour he had heard, that the clone might have been able to live a normally long lifespan… He felt a shiver travel down his spine. No. That was impossible. Archer wouldn't have asked Sim to sacrifice his life if that had been the case... and he certainly wouldn't have ordered him to his death…

Malcolm's eyes scrunched closed, and he sprang up from his chair, his body reacting irrationally and of its own accord to the doubts that were crowding his mind; as if movement alone would allow him to escape them.

"You ok?" Trip asked as he slowly rose to his feet too, the first hint of emotion entering his voice in a long while.

Passing a hand over his face, Malcolm tried to recompose himself. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "It's been a difficult week and I'm still a bit on edge." With a soft, mirthless sound he added, "Bloody well knackered too. Haven't slept much in the past few days."

He felt a hand on his arm, and the empathy of that small gesture.

Trip squeezed his arm silently; then released him and walked a few steps away. Hands on his hips, he got lost in his thoughts, and Malcolm welcomed the moment of silence. It didn't last very long.

"How well did you get to know him?" Trip went on to ask, swivelling to face him.

Malcolm blinked. "I'm afraid I…" He faltered, feeling a stab of guilt. He hadn't exactly gone out of his way either to make friends with Trip's clone. He had kept his interactions with him short and strictly for work. "I was intrigued by him," he eventually continued. "But at the same time..."

"How was he?" Trip asked again.

"He was… so uncannily like you, and yet different." Malcolm struggled to meet Trip's eyes. At least a glint of life was back in them now. "The more Sim got to be like you, the more I felt like… avoiding him," he admitted with a grimace.

He paused to collect his thoughts.

"My friend was in sickbay, in a coma," he strived to explain. "To get close to someone who looked and acted so much like him... almost felt like a betrayal."

Trip's jaw clenched. "And keepin' him at arm's length didn't?" he spat out in sudden anger. "What fault was it of his if he had been created? If he had my looks, my memories, my skills?"

Malcolm flinched under Trip's biting and rightful remark, almost regretting his previous impassivity. If Trip opened up the flood of his emotions he wasn't sure he knew how to dam it. Yet he had another unpleasant confession to make, before it risked leaving an ugly scar on his conscience. He swallowed hard and lowered his gaze to the floor.

"All the same, I did betray our friendship, Trip," he forced out. "I didn't visit you once, while you were in sickbay. I couldn't handle seeing you in a coma and then bumping into… another you up and about the ship. I hid behind the excuse that we were in the middle of a crisis, and I holed up in the Armoury and buried myself in work, so that I wouldn't have to see too much, wouldn't have to think. I left you to fight your battle all alone." He lifted his gaze, hoping the regret would be clear in it.

Trip held it in silence for a long moment; then, closing his eyes, he let his head fall back against the wall behind him. "Damn," he cursed under his breath. "What a screwed up situation."

"Sim had your bright mind and generous nature," Malcolm continued after a beat. "He came up with a plan to save the ship, and willingly sacrificed whatever was left of his already short life to save yours. I want you to know that even though I didn't feel… comfortable enough to get close to him, he certainly earned my respect. He was a brave man."

Trip jerked his head back down a bit too abruptly at that, and Malcolm silently kicked himself. Perhaps he had said too much. After all he didn't know for certain what Phlox had told the Engineer about Sim's death.

"The last thing I'd have wanted was to continue livin' through the sacrifice of someone else's life," Trip said tautly.

Biting his lip, Malcolm mumbled, "I hope I haven't said anything that…"

"No. Phlox had told me."

Malcolm's relief was short lived, for Trip's next, sharp question hit him with the force of a punch in the gut.

"Did the Captain have a right to do what he did?"

Have a right… Malcolm thought Archer had taken quite a few rights since entering the Expanse, but he couldn't deny that, with Earth to save, his decisions had been crucial.

He heaved a deep breath. "Bloody hell, Trip," he murmured as he slowly expelled the air he had taken in. "I've been asking myself this for days, and I still haven't found an answer." Shaking his head, he added, "I doubt I ever will."

He turned and started pacing the small room, painfully aware of Trip's gaze following his every move. After a moment, unable to escape his thoughts any more than his friend's scrutiny, he stopped and faced him squarely.

"I don't know if the Captain had a right to create a clone for spare parts; but perhaps, for the good of the mission, he was right trying everything he could to save this ship's Chief Engineer," he reasoned.

Trip took a few steps towards him, and pinning him with piercing blue eyes enquired tautly, "Did Sim cut his life short of his own free will?"

Malcolm's mind reeled and he averted his gaze. There had been tension between Archer and Sim, and even a few moments ago he had wondered... But he trusted Archer, he wanted to – bloody well had to, if he was to keep taking orders from him. Besides, he certainly wouldn't burden his already tried friend with unfounded suspicions.

"The truth, Malcolm," Trip's strained voice demanded.

Blessing for once his ability to hide emotion behind impassive features, Malcolm refocused on Trip's face. "As far as I know he did," he said in a steady voice.

Probing eyes bore into him, and Malcolm had to remind himself he hadn't told a lie. Only refrained from voicing a doubt he really ought to refuse even to acknowledge.

"If you want truth," he choked out, "I'll let you know that I am grateful that it is you standing here, speaking to me, and that you're not unconscious in sickbay or, worse yet, inside a torpedo casing adrift in space." He cleared his throat. "I know how callous it must sound, but…"

"No," Trip interrupted him firmly. "It's only human for you to feel this way." His features softened as he added, "And you didn't betray our friendship, Malcolm. You were just… caught in the middle of something bigger than you, and did what you felt you had to, to preserve your sanity. There's only so much a person can take."

"And how much can you take?" Malcolm burst out, weariness probably magnifying his concern. "You have been going through a lot, even without this accident."

Trip frowned. "I'll take whatever is thrown at me, no choice in the matter," he muttered darkly. With a sharp shrug of his shoulders he added, "I'll be alright."

Malcolm shook his head, grimacing, not at all convinced.

And what had Trip done up to now? Asked him a sodding string of questions, one after the other - 'who was he, how was he, did you get close to him, did the Captain…'

Oh, yes, it was quite understandable that he should want to know all those things, but… It was time the man did some talking himself, brought up some of those emotions he claimed he could not feel – because Malcolm, of all people, wasn't going to buy that story. He knew that they were there, well bottled inside.

Time to reverse roles, Malcolm decided. He walked to the nearest wall and leant with his back against it, crossing his arms over his chest.

"What did you feel, when you saw him?" he asked outright and rather bluntly, in a deep throaty voice. He was tired of tiptoeing around. Perhaps he was just plain tired, full stop. Bloody exhausted, actually. His stamina and patience were fraying. Or perhaps he instinctively felt he had to shock Trip out of his alleged numbness. Well, he did.

"What the hell do you think?" Trip snapped, swivelling to face him. "What kind of an idiotic question is that?" he snarled, eyes throwing daggers.

Malcolm tried to swallow past the lump that had formed in his throat without making it apparent. The last thing he wanted was to hurt Trip, but hurt the man had sounded, in his anger. Malcolm reminded himself this was ultimately for his friend's good, and forged ahead.

"What did you feel when you saw him, Trip?" he asked again, albeit much more gently. "I'm not asking because I want to pry, believe me," he added quietly, knowing he didn't need to say more.

Trip searched his gaze for a long moment; then let his chin fall to his chest and pressed two fingers on his eyes. "Disbelief," he breathed out. "That's all I could feel when I set eyes on him. It was like… me there, lifeless." He looked up. "But then came the pain, because… this other me had saved my life, and I couldn't even thank him. And then the regret, that I would never get a chance to know him." Words were coming fast and easy, now. "And the anger, that my life had meant the death of someone else. And guilt…"

Malcolm raised questioning eyebrows.

"If I had been more careful with that damn experiment of mine all this wouldn't have happened," Trip explained, waving an arm out, palm up.

Malcolm didn't comment. A part of him could understand that very well.

"And…" Blinking away unshed tears, Trip strived to continue, "I couldn't say I wasn't happy to be alive."

A few beats of silence later, after regaining control, he went on hoarsely, "Then, finally came the numbness. Like I wanted to shove all of those feelings in a dark room and lock them away." He bit his lip. "I had to get numb to be able to go through the… ceremony. The Captain didn't want me to attend, but Phlox convinced him that it was better if I did. And all I could think of, as I looked at the man lyin' in that torpedo casing… was that it should've been me; though actually I was havin' a hard time believing that it wasn't me in there, if you know what I mean," he concluded, closing his eyes.

"I know perfectly well what you mean," Malcolm murmured in a deep voice. "I was grateful for the pips on your shoulder, believe me."

Their eyes met.

"Go get some sleep, Lieutenant," Trip said quietly, breaking the moment. "You look like hell."

Malcolm smirked unhappily, not liking the idea of going back to his quarters, knowing Trip had become insomniac after the attack on Earth and wasn't likely to catch any sleep soon. Perhaps he could convince him to get Phlox's help tonight. "Why don't you let me…" he started; but the door bell interrupted him.

They traded a surprised glance. It was past one by now. After a moment of hesitation, Trip went to answer the call.

The door swished open and a drawn-faced Archer in a dishevelled uniform appeared on the other side of it.

Malcolm felt an unexpected wave of relief. This – he was sure of it now – was the person Trip had expected, had hoped to see, when he had opened the door to him before. This was the man he really needed to talk to. Better late than never.

"I hope I haven't woken you," he heard Archer say, tough his voice was kept low.

It took Trip a long second to reply.

"No. Malcolm's here," he finally said, jerking his head in Malcolm's direction without averting his eyes from the Captain's face.

"I see."

Shaking out of his immobility, Malcolm came forward. He didn't want his presence to become an obstacle to this much needed conversation.

"Captain," he greeted softly, receiving a nod in reply. Turning to Trip, he added with a faint smile, deliberately echoing his earlier words, "I'll go get some sleep, then."

Trip gave him a long glance, and he looked more self-assured, if not serene. "Thanks for coming by," he said.

His gaze tracking once again to those three Commander pips that meant so much more than their rank value, Malcolm murmured back, "Don't mention it."

As Archer passed Malcolm by, stepping inside the room, he clasped a hand to his arm in what Malcolm thought was a grateful gesture.

The door swished closed and Malcolm stood looking at it pensively for a moment. He hoped the two men inside that room would be able to forget the mission, the ugliness, the hurt, the doubts, and bare their souls to each other. For he knew their souls were good, and if they managed that, their friendship would survive even this difficult test.

Closing his eyes, he became aware of how tense his muscles were, and made a conscious effort to relax them, letting his shoulders slump. At least the nagging voice inside his head was no longer there. Perhaps now he could read a few pages of his book and then lose himself in unconsciousness. Heaving a deep breath, he opened his eyes again and went on his way.

THE END