Disclaimer: Not making any money etc.
AN: No beta this time... the plot bunny jumped me unexpectedly, and I didn't want to burden my poor betas with even more work ;). All mistakes are mine and mine alone.
Feedback is as always very welcome (no surprises there, I guess :) )!
He was four months old. His mother had taken him outside on a sunny afternoon, to lie next to her on a blanket while she weeded the flowerbeds. He enjoyed it in the instinctive way very small children experience enjoyment; a warm flooding sensation that filled his mind and body down to his fingers and toes. Waving his arms, he laughed, and his mother smiled at him, both of which didn't happen very often. He didn't realize it, but he was happy.
As he lay on his blanket, something noisy approached him and he followed it with his eyes. He laughed when it came closer and waved his hand, wanting to reach for it, but the noisy thing kept buzzing away, soaring up and hovering in the blue sky. He had never seen a thing act like this and it piqued his curiosity. After a while, the thing approached again and this time he held still, watching as it buzzed here and there, hovering. After a while, it descended enough for him to see that it was striped, and the pattern intrigued him. The thing hovered even closer and he watched, endlessly fascinated, as it settled on the sleeve of his jacket, crawling over the pale blue fabric until it had reached the cuff. The thing sat there for a moment and he stared at it, taking in every detail of its shape, its fuzzy texture, its vibrant colors. He had never seen such a thing before. Most of the time, he was inside, left in a crib that was of a pristine white and had no colors or patterns for him to discover, in a room where there were few sounds and fewer people coming by. It was why he spent a lot of his time asleep. He didn't know it, but the striped, fuzzy, buzzing thing on his sleeve was the most interesting event in his life since a long time.
He watched as ever so slowly, the thing resumed walking, its tiny antennaes trembling as it made its way across the cuff and onto the exposed skin. It tickled as it walked across his arm and he wasn't sure whether he liked the sensation or not; he had never had the chance to explore it before. Unease broke through his fascination, and he twitched.
Pain. He had never felt anything like it, and it ripped through his world like a bolt of lightning. Something had happened to his arm, something so awful that he couldn't stand it, and he screamed because he was terrified and because the pain was so bad and wouldn't stop. His mother picked him up, more quickly than usual and it scared him, so he screamed even louder, so loud that it hurt in his own ears. He was carried inside and something cold touched his arm and then something cool was spread on it and all the while he screamed with pain and terror. He didn't want them touching his arm, but he had no way of telling them except for screaming, and scream he did until his mother picked him up and carried him to his crib where he was left alone.
He never forgot about that day, although he didn't recall it in the way he recalled his name or the things he learned at school. From that day on, however, he knew that pain was always hovering close by, that it was sure to follow. And that he was alone when it came. That, too.
Pain. The bloody worst he had ever known, and it didn't even have the mercy to knock him out. His side was on fire, literally, the bolt from the rifle searing his uniform and tearing into his flesh. Eating it. Someone screamed, howled in agony, and it took him a second to realize that it was he who was producing the shrill, piercing sound. He staggered a few steps, his hands weakly beating at the flames, the faces surrounding him a blurred mass of gray. Hands pushed him down and he collapsed, still screaming. Something, a blanket, was thrown over him and there was a new wave of agony as he was tumbled across the ground.
The flames were gone after that but the pain was not, and he screamed as they pulled off the singed blanket, screamed as they rolled him over onto his side, screamed while they frantically ran around to help him.
One of them screamed almost as loud as he did, and he caught a few of the words.
"... give 'im somethin', GODDAMMIT!"
Someone called his name, grabbed his arm, and he knew that it would not be much longer now. The pain would be over soon. His voice broke when something cold touched his neck. He didn't want cold things on his body, had never liked them, but this one was welcome. It would take away the pain... or rather, take him away. The pain could bloody well stay, as long as he didn't have to.
Bad one, Reed, he thought as he felt himself slip away and his mouth twitched. If they had noticed, those left behind would have been surprised that he was trying to smile.
The pain woke him up again. It wasn't as bad as it had been; it wasn't mauling him anymore, and he concluded that someone had locked it in its cage while he had been out. It could still rage at him through the bars, though; he could feel its claws piercing the sensitive skin on his side. He tried to back away, find a place where it wouldn't be able to reach him, but he soon realized that there was no such thing. He was trapped.
He opened his eyes, blinking several times before his surroundings came into focus. He was lying on a sickbay bed, propped up on his side and supported by several pillows, if the soft pressure in his back was any indication. A pristine white curtain was drawn around his bed and the lights inside the privacy space were dimmed to shield him from the noises and the brightness outside.
He tried to raise his head and found that his movements were sluggish, almost as if he were still asleep. He noticed a tube in his hand and frowned. He didn't want a tube in there. In fact, he didn't want to be here at all, locked in a white space with only the pain and no one else to keep him company. The pain. He remembered now where it had come from... someone had fired a rifle. He wasn't sure whether he was the one they had wanted to hit or why they had fired at all. He had never anticipated the laser bolt until it had buried itself in his side. A failure. He should be thanking all the Gods there were that he had been in the right place at the right time, to catch the fire before someone else did. It would have been his fault if they had died.
He heard a sound from outside his curtained bed and tried to raise his head again, only to discover that he still couldn't move. Whatever was running into his body through the tube was strong enough to turn his limbs into jelly, leaving him weak like a newborn kitten. It wasn't enough to keep the pain from scratching and clawing at him, though, and he wondered just how bad it was. Maybe it was a good thing that he was unable to take a look.
"... sleeping," someone said quietly. He recognized the doctor's voice.
"When's he gonna wake up?" a second voice asked nervously. Malcolm wanted to call out, let Trip know that he was awake and that he was fine, but his voice wouldn't cooperate. "He's not in a coma, is he?"
Coma? So it was bad, worse than he had thought. Again, Malcolm tried to look down at himself, but all he could see where his arm and hands, one of which was connected with the tube. Suddenly, he wanted to pull it out, just... because. It bothered him, and he couldn't be bothered. He grinned weakly, his fingers twitching helplessly as he tried to get a hold on the needle. That was actually quite funny. Couldn't be bothered.
"No, he isn't," Phlox said, and it took Malcolm a moment before he realized that the doctor was talking about the coma. "He'll wake up once the sedative wears off. Which won't be too soon, I hope."
Now Trip sounded almost offended. "Doc, I know Malcolm can be a difficult patient, but-"
"I wasn't referring to the Lieutenant's unwillingness to submit himself to medical procedures," Phlox said. "I'm more concerned about Mr. Reed's well-being."
"Is there a problem, doc?"
Malcolm recognized the Captain's voice, and it occurred to him that it wouldn't be a good idea to pull out the bothersome IV line while Archer was here. Archer was the Captain, after all, and could call Security to throw him into the brig. Well, in this particular case, Malcolm would have to throw himself in the brig, which might be difficult but wasn't undoable. Malcolm stopped worrying the needle and listened as Phlox continued.
"The sniper who fired at us didn't use a normal laser rifle. The burns on Mr. Reed's body are far more extensive than they should have been. Here... " There was a short pause and Malcolm wondered if they were looking at an image of his fried arse, sincerely hoping that it was not so. "His left thigh and part of his hip are covered in second-degree burns, some of them quite severe. I had to excise large patches of the outer epidermis to remove the parts of his uniform that had melted into the skin. A normal laser weapon would have left a much smaller injury."
There was a dull thud, as if someone had brought their fist down on a hard surface. "They find that son of a bitch yet?" Trip wanted to know.
"Not yet." Archer sounded angry as well, and Malcolm wondered if the Captain realized that, all things considered, they had gotten off lightly. Any of them could have been killed in the attack. "They think it was a one-man crusade, some xenophobe who wanted to get his point across. He left a message with the government shortly after he left the scene."
"Bastard son of a bitch," Trip repeated, a little louder now. "They-"
"Please keep your voice down, Commander," Phlox interrupted him. "I don't want the Lieutenant to wake up too soon."
"That's what you said," Archer said quietly. "Doc?"
"The Lieutenant's condition isn't stable," Phlox continued, in an equally low tone of voice. "I have administered an IV line to replenish the fluids he has lost, but I can't risk giving him strong pain medication." He paused for a moment. "Mr. Reed has a bad night ahead of himself."
A short silence followed, then Trip asked quietly, "He's gonna be alright though, isn't he?"
"His life is not in immediate danger, no. But he is going to be in a lot of pain."
A lot of pain. The pain he was trapped with now was not "a lot of", or at least Malcolm didn't think it was. Every now and then, it would lunge at him and make him wince, but the rest of the time it was a fairly steady presence; unwelcome, yet nothing like the agony he had suffered down on the planet. He couldn't have lived through a whole night of such pain.
He listened as the Captain asked Phlox to let him know if Malcolm's condition changed, and the doctor's quiet confirmation. Their soft voices reminded Malcolm of mourners attending a funeral. But it wasn't so bad, was it? Phlox had said that he wasn't in immediate danger. Again, he tried to look down at himself, and this time he managed to raise his head enough to get a glimpse of white bandages and a whiff of something that smelled both sweet and sickly. It took his drugged mind a moment to realize what it was. Closing his eyes, he laid his head back down on the pillow, which smelled of sickbay and sterile storage compartments and nothing else. Roast Reed for Sunday dinner. That was what he had told the Captain, that time in the minefield, and he had been quite proud of his joke, given that he had been in terrible pain at the time and quite sure that he would live out his life nailed to a piece of hull plating. He thought of the Sunday roast his family had usually had, with carrots and potatoes and cauliflower, which he hated but of course had eaten all the same. "You're going to eat what's put in front of you." Malcolm tried to remember if the roast had smelled anything like the injury hidden under those white bandages. All he needed now was for someone to come and pour potatoes and peas and, God forbid, cauliflower onto his bed. No, they couldn't do that. He'd stand for the other vegetables, but not the cauliflower. That would be cruel.
He smiled although it wasn't really all that funny, wondering if it was worth the effort to try and pull out the IV needle, now that Archer was gone. Maybe not. Maybe that had been an incredibly stupid idea right from the beginning.
The pain was still there, of course, lurking. Malcolm tried to ignore it and searched his mind for something to think of that would allow him to go to sleep. Something familiar, something that was a little too boring to hold his interest for long... the duty roster. Yes, that was a good idea. He could mentally rearrange it so that the Armory was fully staffed at all times, something which Captain Archer didn't seem to think was important. Malcolm sighed a little at the thought and began to make the necessary reassignments.
His own breathing was the only sound he could hear. From time to time, there was a soft rustle of leaves when one of Phlox's pets moved in its cage, but that was all. No beeping monitors, no voices, not even the sound of steps since Phlox had left. Malcolm had pretended to be asleep when the doctor had checked on him, although he knew that Phlox only had to take a look at the bio monitor to know that he wasn't.
The doctor had tugged Malcolm's blankets back into place, careful not to touch the bandaged area. "I'll be in the laboratory next door," he had said, still in that quiet funeral voice they all seemed to have adopted. "I've put a buzzer next to your bed if you need anything. Please don't hesitate to use it."
Malcolm had kept his eyes closed.
"Maybe you can try to get some rest, Lieutenant," the doctor had said before he left, pulling the white curtain into place.
His side was on fire. Not literally, of course; Malcolm knew what that felt like and he never wanted to repeat the experience. But this was turning out to be almost as bad. The pain was out of its cage again, yet this time it did not pounce him like it had down the planet. This time it was circling him, growling, and now and then it took a bite out of his flesh, its teeth shredding the vulnerable skin. When it did, it was as if someone were pouring acid on his side. Once the worst of it was over, the wait began again, the pain lurking in she shadows while he waited, fearfully, for it to strike again.
Sleep might have brought relief, but Malcolm knew that there would be no sleep as long as he was trapped in here with the pain. He had almost gone to sleep earlier, his body and mind still numb from the sedative, but now there wasn't a chance of it.
His ragged breathing was getting on his nerves. He took a deep breath, then let it out again through his nose. In, and out. In, and out. It was supposed to be soothing, or so he had been told. In through the mouth, out through the nose. Maddy had done that with her soda once. She had been drinking it too fast, gulping down an entire glass of the fizzy stuff, and suddenly it had come out again, most of it through the nose. He had laughed until he had cried, and Maddy had walloped him on the head with her Geography book. He hadn't stopped laughing.
In through the mouth, out through the nose. The pain bit him again, hard, and he had to struggle to keep up his even breathing. This wasn't helping; if anything, it was a distraction. Malcolm exhaled and opened his eyes again. He noticed that his hand was clutching at the sheet and loosened his grip. If only he could sleep, even if it was just a short, restless nap. Things would be bearable if he could only escape this for a short while. It wasn't going to happen, though, and Malcolm knew that the night had only just begun. And who said that this was going to stop come the morning? More likely than not, his condition wouldn't change over night, which meant no painkillers. And no protective barrier between him and the pain.
Get a grip on yourself. He could do this. It wasn't the first time he was hurt, and not the first time he couldn't sleep because of it. He should be grateful that it was him in here, and not Trip or Hoshi. They had been close when the sniper had fired, and it was only by fortunate coincidence that he had hit Malcolm instead. He was Security. He was supposed to get hit.
Pain buried its teeth in his side again and he gasped. And noticed to his dismay that his eyes were getting blurry.
You are NOT going to cry.
He bit down on his lip, eyes tightly shut, waiting for the pain to let go again. Come on... please. Reeds don't beg, he reminded himself, and bit down harder, his teeth digging into the soft flesh on the inside of his lip. Come on.
His side screamed as the pain yanked and ripped at it, and Malcolm realized that it had no intention of releasing him this time. It was eating its way into his body, slowly, inch by bloody inch. It wasn't going to stop again.
This time, he could not suppress the tears that filled his eyes or the strangled sob that wanted to come out. It was pathetic, a grown man, a Reed crying with pain, and still he couldn't help it. All he could do was make sure that no one saw him.
Malcolm turned his head and buried his face in the pillow, muffling any sounds that might have slipped out.
Sickbay was quiet when Trip entered. The lights had been dimmed down to the lowest level and even Phlox' collection of pets seemed to be sleeping, or, in case of the nocturnal animals, munching quietly on whatever larvae the doctor had dropped into their cages for supper.
He looked around. Phlox was nowhere near and Trip didn't want to call for him, just in case Malcolm had managed to fall asleep. If he had, Trip would tiptoe out again as quietly as he had come and leave the Armory Officer to his much-needed rest.
As he approached the curtained-off area, he noticed with relief that the stink of burned flesh was no longer hanging in the air. It had smelled horrible and looked even worse when they had carried Malcolm back to the shuttle, his limp body a dead weight in their arms, his left leg a mass of blackened, bloodied skin with patches of fabric molten into the wound. Trip wasn't squeamish, and yet he hadn't found it within himself to look too closely at Malcolm's injury as they had returned to the ship. He had grabbed a wet cloth instead and had ran it over Malcolm's forehead, which wasn't at all necessary but gave him something to do. Hoshi had done more or less the same, holding on to Malcolm's hand while Phlox worked on him, telling the unconscious man that he was going to be all right. In the pilot seat, Jon had punched away at the helm as if it were responsible for the incident. They had all felt helpless in the face of what had happened.
Trip paused for a moment outside of the curtain, listening. There was no sound from within, not even the quiet breathing of a sleeping person. He wondered if Malcolm was awake but pretending to sleep so he would leave again. Malcolm could be like that when he was miserable and didn't want anyone to know.
Trip had just reached for the curtain when there was a noise from behind it, a soft gasp like... a sob? He stopped in mid movement. There it was again, and this time there was no doubt about it. It was the sound of someone crying very, very quietly.
Trip pulled the curtain aside.
Aw, Malcolm.
Malcolm was propped up on his side, his burned leg and hip swaddled with white bandages. Several pillows and cushions had been arranged to support him from either side, a blanket awkwardly draped over his middle section. Another one had slipped off and was pooled on the floor in front of the bed. Malcolm's dark head was buried almost entirely in his pillow. His shoulders twitched along with his almost inaudible sobs.
Trip knew that Malcolm had not noticed that he was here and that he would want him to leave again, preferably without making his presence known. This was not how Malcolm wanted to be seen.
He approached the bed. He wasn't going to turn around and go away, even if Malcolm got angry. Which was almost certain to happen, but Trip didn't care. At least it would distract the other man from the pain.
Very quietly, he pulled up a chair next to the bed and sat down. Malcolm had still not noticed his presence. Trip reached out and gently swept a hand over the dark hair.
"It's okay, Malcolm."
The twitching shoulders stilled and for a moment it was perfectly quiet, the silence tense. Then, Malcolm turned his face to look at him. His eyes were swollen and red, his cheeks streaked with tears and creased from where his face had pressed into the pillow. Trip didn't withdraw his hand, although he knew that this could be a dangerous thing to do. Instead, he continued stroking.
"It's okay, Mal."
Malcolm stared at him for a long moment. Then, he exhaled and lay down on the pillow, closing his eyes.
"Go away," he whispered.
Trip didn't move. "Nope," he whispered back. "I'm stayin' right here."
He continued to run his fingers over Malcolm's hair. The Englishman didn't try to pull back or bat Trip's hand away; maybe he didn't have the energy left to do so. A tear leaked out from under his closed eyelid.
"I'm fine," he whispered.
"Yeah," Trip said. "I know."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. Those things hurt like hell."
"It's... not that bad. I should have better control than this."
Trip shook his head, his hand still combing through the dark hair. "It is that bad. I know. Had an accident with plasma coolant once, back on Earth. A burn is the worst kinda injury. Hurts like a fuckin' bastard."
Malcolm said nothing to contradict the statement. Trip noticed that his face was marginally calmer than when Malcolm had first looked at him, his mouth a little less tense. And he still hadn't pulled away from Trip's hand.
Trip continued talking very quietly, telling Malcolm all about the accident, how Jon had raised Cain at Headquarters afterwards to have the safety protocols tightened – "you woulda loved it, Mal" – and how he had snuck out of the hospital to get back to work. "Jus' like you're gonna do in a few weeks, and don't tell me you won't 'cause I know better."
He told Malcolm all about the time he had gone diving in the Great Barrier Reef, how he had followed a flock of turtles for almost a mile before he had gotten a good picture of them. "I bought the underwater camera specially for the occasion. Gotta show you the pictures one day. That is, if I can get you to sit through five hundred photos of fish and coral reefs."
He told him all about the big barbecue they'd had at home when his dad had turned sixty-five, and how he had been elected to be in charge of the grill. "They said that if I can handle a Warp engine I should be able to handle six dozen hungry Tuckers. And I did do a good job, if I say so myself."
Stroking Malcolm's hair, he told him about the survival training he and Jon had gone through, and how he had hated every single minute of it. "Y'know, I do like campin' out, but I prefer a place that doesn't turn into a furnace durin' the day and a refrigerator at night. And the snake meat, I can't see how anyone can actually eat that an' not projectile vomit right into the next bush. Okay, ya didn't need to hear 'bout that, I guess."
He looked down at Malcolm. His face was relaxed, dark lashes resting calmly on pale cheeks. The hand that had been clutching the sheets earlier was limp. Malcolm's ragged breathing had evened out, his chest rising and falling steadily as he slept.
Trip smiled at the sight. "That's better," he whispered and stroked Malcolm's hair one last time before he carefully drew his hand back. Malcolm shifted a little, but didn't wake.
Trip sat back in chair. After talking for almost an hour, his mouth was dry, and he took a sip of water from the glass on Malcolm's bedside table. He should probably go back to his quarters and catch some sleep; a glance at the clock on the monitor confirmed that it was quite late. Or quite early, depending on how you looked at it.
Malcolm sighed in his sleep and Trip set the water glass back on the table, careful not to make any noise. "Don't worry," he whispered. "I'm stayin'."
Maybe Malcolm didn't care whether he stayed or not, but Trip wanted to make sure that he wasn't alone if the pain woke him up again.
Got a lot more stories to talk you to sleep with, Loo-tenant... and that's a promise, not a threat.
He smiled as he watched his friend sleep.
The End
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