000 Disclaimer, I don't own Star Trek Enterprise and I make no profit from this at all 000 Yes, I'm back, with fic :) Hope you enjoy, an explanation on the title is at the end :) Huge thanks to The Libran Iniquity who beta-read this for me :) 000
Malcolm stared at the room, his eyes falling on things that were both aching familiar and oddly strange all at once. He felt like a trespasser in the family home. Why had he agreed to do this? Madeline had offered, unconvincing in her offer with her face stained red from holding back her grief. To be honest, when they'd spoken he almost wished she had cried, sobbed even in the aftermath of their parents' death, but she was never one for crying in front of people.
She was packing up the living room, even as he stood here in a room he didn't recognise filled with things bought during his childhood and before.
But he was the eldest child; it was his job, not hers, to pack up their parents' lives into boxes. Although the nasty little voice in his head reminded him that had the death of his mother and father not coincided with Enterprise's brief return to Earth, he wouldn't even be here.
Sighing, Malcolm mechanically stripped the sheets off the bed, folding them awkwardly into neat piles, trying to ignore the painful scent of his mother's perfume wafting up from them. He moved to the chest of drawers next and rapidly transferred the clothes within to a box, not dwelling on a single item, not cracking a smile over the hideous jumper lovingly knitted by his mother and then carefully hidden by his father. The underwear drawer was a horrifically embarrassing moment in which he closed his eyes and transferred every scrap of fabric he could feel into the black bin bag held tightly in his other hand.
As if on autopilot, he opened his eyes and went to the wardrobe. The sight of his father's old Navy dress uniform hanging, neatly pressed, hung up in a protective cover almost made him slam the door shut again.
When the call came from Madeline Malcolm was with Trip, who was trying to convince him to go sample Mama Tucker's cooking, Hoshi, who believed a relaxing spa trip was what the Doctor ordered, and Travis, who was eager to do some rock climbing. He'd laughed with them as they discussed shore leave plans, but he'd known something was wrong the moment he found out he'd been contacted.
Maddie's face had been grey as she told him, in dull, flat tones: "There's been an accident, Malcolm." She didn't even have to tell him in the end. She must have seen the sudden, dreadful enlightenment sweep across his face. "Can you come home?"
They shared a short, stilted conversation and afterwards he went to find Trip - still in the mess hall with Hoshi and Travis where he'd left them - and politely told him to thank Mrs Tucker for the offer but he would be returning home instead.
"What do you mean? What's happened?"
"Family emergency." The true reality had narrowed his world to a small pinpoint and he'd turned on his heel and fled to the Armoury. By the time he left the ship, he had completed a full inventory and successfully avoided everyone.
But he hadn't cried.
He hadn't even felt sad, felt their loss. He hadn't felt anything.
Malcolm shook his head and began removing the various articles of clothing from the wardrobe. When the box was full he turned to make for the door, only to notice several more had been piled just inside the doorway for him. Checking his watch he realised he had been in the room over an hour, mechanically sorting his dead parents' clothing into various boxes.
Malcolm silently returned to the wardrobe and started removing the boxes from the top shelf. Most were full of photographs, the thousands of photographs his mother had taken over the course of her lifetime. A few were posed shots, but most were taken with the subject unaware. One of the photos near the top was of him as a small child, perched on his father's shoulders, arms raised in joy and a big grin stretched across his face as the fireworks exploded behind them in the sky. His father looked... happy, at peace with the world even as he kept a secure hold on Malcolm's legs.
He dropped the photo back into the box and crammed the lid back on. He stared at it wordlessly for a long moment before pulling a marker pen from his pocket and gently labelling it. He set it aside and reached up for the hat box threatening to tip onto his head. His fingers ghosted over a smooth, glossy surface behind it as he struggled to get a better grip. Checking the hat box did indeed contain a hat Malcolm set it down beside the boxes of photos and then reached up to get a hold of the previously unseen container lodged behind the hat box.
It was unexpectedly heavy and the smooth surface didn't help as he tried to secure his grip. The box slid through his fingers and bounced off the floor, bursting open and spilling notebooks out across the pale blue carpet. Cursing Malcolm knelt down and reached for the nearest one only to freeze.
The plain pages of the notebooks were filled with his father's neat scrawl. Date at the top - minus the year - and several lines of his father's innermost thoughts and feelings below.
'2nd September
Mary gave birth to a boy. Sherie thinks we should name him George and Mary wants to name him something ridiculous like Archibald, but no son of mine is getting lumbered with the name Archibald. There's been enough Archibald's in this damn family to last a lifetime. I've decided it should be Malcolm, the boy looks like a Malcolm.
Mary will come round.'
It was his father's journal.
Before he even knew what he was doing Malcolm had reached for the nearest one, sudden and agonising curiosity overcoming any shame at prying into a dead man's privacy.
'25th December
As usual the entire family piled round to our home. The boy slept through most of it, bloody Ruth kept telling me I was holding him wrong as if I don't know how to hold my own son. Probably jealous, the boy did nothing but cry when he was passed to her - that's my boy, he's not taken in by that witch pretending to be all sweetness and light. Bloody woman. If it weren't for Mary promising I be civil to her mother harsh words would have been said.
I hate entertaining at Christmas, I don't see why it just can't be me, Mary and the boy rather than having to entertain and feed relatives that I don't like and a mother-in-law that has never forgiven me for daring to marry her daughter.
Next year it's just going to be us. I'm putting my foot down.'
Malcolm flicked slowly through the pages, occasionally smiling at his father's somewhat sarcastic assessment of the people around him. The entries hadn't been made daily, months passing between some of them. It was a strange read, something so far removed from the strong, gruff man he remembered.
"Malcolm?"
Malcolm's head snapped up and he saw his sister stood in the doorway; her eyes were on the notebook in his hands.
"Did you get distracted?" she asked softly. Her expression suggested she'd cried recently, leaving her looking drained.
"I, er..." Malcolm raised the notebook, suddenly embarrassed. "I found, uh...did you know he kept a journal? There was a whole box of them."
Madeline crossed over and sat beside him. Wordlessly she reached for one of the other notebooks strewn across the floor and flicked it open. Malcolm watched her a moment before moving to the last page of the notebook in his hands.
'12th February
Mary had a girl. She's calling her Madeline. I can't - I'm not sure - the birth was difficult. The quack says it will be a while before I can take them home. She's a fragile little thing. Much smaller than Malcolm was.
It's just me and the boy while they're in the hospital. He's been quiet so far, although there was nearly a tantrum at dinner when he refused to eat his vegetables, and damn it he will eat what is put in front of him! No child of mine is going to be one of those whiny, fussy, picky little eaters.
I probably shouldn't have shouted. I've been on edge all night, I keep expecting a phone call from the hospital saying - I mean I would be there now but I've got to take care of my boy.
I might read him a story. He likes that.'
Malcolm frowned; he opened his mouth to say something only to shut it abruptly. Madeline nudged him with her elbow.
"What is it?" she whispered, almost shattering the fragile peace of the room.
Malcolm handed her the notebook and watched her gaze skim across the words. She inhaled softly and then looked at him again, her eyes oddly bright. "What story did he read you?"
He thought about it for a moment, straining his memory till he dredged up a long forgotten feeling of being held securely in someone's lap. Soft words floated across his memory but he couldn't place them. "I don't remember," he admitted quietly.
"Maybe it was Thomas the Tank Engine," Madeline suggested, she held up the other notebook in her hand. "There's a whole entry in here about how you refused to let anyone but him read it to you." The corners of her mouth twitched in a sad amusement. "Apparently Grandma Ruth wasn't very impressed, and was even more annoyed when I successfully ruined the brand new dress she bought me." She set the notebooks down and carefully folded her hands in her lap. "He was quite funny at times, wasn't he?"
"Drove Mum mad," Malcolm agreed softly.
"I don't really remember." Madeline leant her head against his shoulder.
Malcolm put his arm round her. "Me neither."
"Should we keep reading?" she asked him, staring at the rest of the notebooks.
Malcolm shrugged.
His little sister sighed heavily. "I want to know who he was, who they were, sometimes I feel like we didn't know them at all." Her shoulders shook, once, and Malcolm tightened his grip on her. "I can't believe they're..." She trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished like so many in his father's journal. She pulled away a moment and reached for another notebook before leaning against him again. "I need to know."
Malcolm nodded, numbly wondering if he'd feel the loss as greatly as his sister did, wondering if he'd eventually break down and grieve. "How old are we in this one?" he asked instead, his voice soundly momentarily hoarse.
Madeline scanned the first page. "You're eighteen, so I must've been fifteen." She smiled tightly. "I think I skipped a few."
Malcolm glanced at the notebooks still lying where they'd fallen. "I think I mucked up the order when I dropped the box."
Madeline made a dismissive noise in the back of her throat, her attention already on the notebook in her hands. Malcolm stared at the pile next to him, and then at the boxes of photographs in front of them.
Thousands of photographs and thousands of memories all captured and recorded by his parents. "You know, if it weren't for Mum and that damn camera I wouldn't be half as good as I am at knowing when I'm being followed." He chuckled quietly. "She was so stealthy, I didn't dare bring a girl home in case she caught us out with that damn thing."
Madeline giggled suddenly, her finger marking her place on the notebook page. "Do you remember when she caught us making that explosive out of custard? She was so surprised at our stupidity she ended up taking the photo in her shock just as custard powder exploded all over the kitchen."
"As far as I remember you got the lesser punishment," said Malcolm raising his eyebrows. "Clearly unjust."
A true smile broke across Madeline's face. "You're my big brother, you're supposed to look out for me, not get me to help you make explosives out of custard."
"Do you know how long it was before she let me near the kitchen cupboards again?" Malcolm grinned. He reached over for another notebook and cracked it open. "Months."
'4th June
Took the children out sailing. The boy's a natural, albeit tentative. He admitted to me he doesn't like the water, he'll get over that soon enough though. After all it's hard to avoid. I think he enjoyed it – maybe he's going to take after me and join the Navy as well.
Mary says the boy can do whatever he wants, I agree, the boy has to make his own way after all – although if he announces he wants to do something dangerous or –God forbid – become an actor I'm stepping in.'
Malcolm frowned. "What on..." He reread the important bit again. 'Mary says the boy can do whatever he wants, I agree'. Frown deepening in confusion he flicked to the next page.
'17th August
Hellish day.
The boy has an allergy to pineapple, I didn't see it coming, one minute he was gobbling it down and the next he's wheezing and going blue in the face. I didn't know what to do, Mary she – Madeline wouldn't stop crying, I couldn't –
He wasn't b –
I thought he was going to –
He looked so small.
We should've had him tested. I couldn't stand it if, if either of them ever –
Hellish day.'
He realised he must have made some sort of noise as Madeline suddenly leaned across and peered at the page.
"I remember that," she said tapping the page. "I'd never... I mean Dad went all weird and quiet; Mum was so in control, so calm, and you..." She paused and stared at him. "I could do with a cup of tea – do you want one?"
"Yeah, please," Malcolm flicked between the two pages, feeling a sudden burst of cold air as the warm body beside him moved away. "He never said anything," he murmured. 'The boy can do whatever he wants'.
Spurred on by a sudden desire for knowledge Malcolm grabbed for the notebook Madeline had been reading, the one written when he was eighteen. He flicked through, quickly scanning the pages till he found what he was looking for.
'31st July
The boy came home and announced he was joining Starfleet. Starfleet?! What was he thinking? They say we'll be launching our first Earth vessel soon, the boy says he wants to go train up to see the stars. I told him we had a perfectly good telescope but he wasn't having any of it.
Starfleet? Does he have any idea how dangerous that is? If he wants adventure he should join the Navy like I did, far safer, it's not like we're fighting amongst ourselves anymore.
Mary says we should support him. I just can't believe she's going along with this. I won't support something that puts him in danger. I won't. I'm sure with a little encouragement I can direct him to the Navy, get him a decent posting. He won't like it but he'll thank me one day. He's my son, it's my job to keep him safe.
He'll understand. He will.'
Malcolm slammed the notebook down, mind reeling. "No, I didn't understand!" he yelled suddenly. "I didn't understand! You bastard, you old, stupid bastard! You pushed me and you pushed me and you made me doubt myself but you never told me. You never told me anything!" With a sharp cry he snatched up the notebook and flung it at the wall.
"Malcolm?!" Madeline materialised in the doorway, her hair slipping out from its restrictive ponytail. "What is it?" She caught sight of the notebook resting on the floor, loose pages slowly slipping out. She gasped and moved to gather it up. "What are you doing?"
Malcolm clenched his fists, trying to control his breathing as the once breezy room became cloying and claustrophobic, pushing unwanted memories at him from all angles. "Nothing, I need to –"
Madeline gave him a steely look, one that was so eerily reminiscent of his mother Malcolm felt a sudden lump rush to his throat.
"Oh God, Maddie," he whispered, his voice breaking as realisation finally hit. "They're gone." He sat down heavily on the bed and gestured to the notebook held protectively in her hands. "Bastard never told me, kept everything to himself..." He dropped his head. "He made me feel like a failure, when all he was doing was trying to keep me safe. The bastard..." His breath caught in his throat. "And now they're gone."
"It's because we didn't talk, we never talked any of us," said Madeline bitterly. "We're only just finding out what our father really thought of us. Mum took those stupid photos and arranged them in pretty books but she never said anything either." She inhaled sharply. "You know what I did earlier while you were packing away clothes? I cried. I cried for our stupid parents, because they're gone, and now it's just us and mad old Aunt Sherie, and you never talk. You never write or ask me how I'm doing with my life. You're just like him." She stood in front of him, tears starting to fall down her face, looking for all the world as if she'd rather bolt than admit to her own brother she was crying. "You're right. They're gone, and we'll never talk to them again. And I hate..." she closed her eyes, her voice trembling. "Our father had to die before we learned that he loved us and our mother never said anything, just kept taking more and more damn photographs. So don't you, so don't you," a sob escaped her. "So don't you call him a bastard when you're as much to blame as he is – you never made the effort to talk to him, and he never made the effort to talk to you. Don't you call him a bastard, Malcolm Reed. He was our father and he loved us, don't you dare call him a bastard!" She crumpled into a heap, sobbing, her hands pressed to her face. "Don't you dare."
Malcolm slid off the bed and wrapped his arms round her. He felt it now, the aching loss, the grief, and selfishly hoped for his previous lack of feeling. Madeline clutched at him, her fingers digging painfully into his arm. He couldn't stop his own grief mingling with hers, hiding his face in shame and embarrassment even as he held onto her.
They stayed like that for a long time, until both finally calmed enough to regain some facade of control. Malcolm pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it over to her before scrubbing at his face with his sleeve.
"I miss them," said Madeline softly, the handkerchief clutched in one hand.
Malcolm thought about his mother, holding out her camera and smiling, and his father, who recorded his life's thoughts in a journal and hid it from the world. Then he pulled an empty box over and began neatly stacking the journals inside. Madeline silently watched him pack, his handkerchief still held in her hand.
000 The title, for those who are wondering, is based off a quote from Ellen Goodman: 'The central struggle of parenthood is to let our hopes for our children outweigh our fears.' Please review and let me know what you think :)000