This story was meant for Messhall Midnight Munchies Month, but it came out a bit angsty for the light mood that special month implies. So my real MMMM story will be a bit late, but here, in the meantime, is this one.
Set in Season Two.
§-§
There's got to be something we can do to…
Hang in there, Crewman, you're going to be all right…
Captain, I need you to take a scan of…
Faster, Travis…
The engine is already overheating, Sir…
Trip shook his head, to clear it of the damning memories that replayed non-stop, like a broken record.
Midnight. The hour of witches and ghosts.
As he walked down the corridor on B deck, Trip mused that such a thought would have normally brought a smile to his lips. But tonight witches and ghosts, demons great and small, were quite real for a number of them, first and foremost – he'd bet his favourite hyperspanner – for a certain Armoury Officer. That's why he was on this good-Samaritan midnight errand. Archer had received the cold but reassuring comfort of T'Pol's logic; he'd seen Travis serving as soundboard for Hoshi; but Malcolm... since the Shuttlepod had docked, the man had disappeared.
Well, it didn't matter. The mystery called Malcolm Reed, in the past year and a half, had lost its opacity, hadn't it; and the man's heart had revealed some of its deep and sometimes dark recesses, but also its sensitive core. No, there wasn't the slightest doubt in Trip's mind that Malcolm would not be able to find rest tonight. Losing a man, a man under one's direct command, could not be easy, and least of all for him, who was elected to protect them. It was best if someone tried to catch and kill the poisonous snake that had undoubtedly been hatched in his friend's breast, before it did too much damage; and the difficult task fell to him, as Malcolm's closest friend on board; also off-board, as far as he could tell.
Trip stopped in front of the Lieutenant's quarters and rang the bell. There was no reply. Glancing up and down the corridor, to make sure he was alone, he put one palm flat on the door and leaned with his forehead on it, closing his weary eyes. "Malcolm," he called, "it's me, Trip. Are you in there?"
Maybe he should just let himself in. But then again, maybe he should check the mess hall and gym first. The man might be brooding in front of a cup of tea grown cold, or venting his feelings on a punching ball; depending on what stage of grieving he had reached.
Pushing off the door, Trip retraced his steps.
Midnight. An hour of relative calm.
The Mess hall was empty, people having either gone to bed or on their shift. Empty – that was – except for the single person there, the man in a blue uniform with red piping. Back to the entrance, Malcolm was sitting, immobile, at one of the furthest tables.
Strange that the usually alert man hadn't turned to the sound of him entering… But then Tip noticed thin wires hanging from his ears. He slowed down. The music with which Malcolm was trying to knock his mind unconscious was so loud that, as he got closer, he could hear it too. He had heard it before; it was a powerful orchestral piece.
Trip stopped in his tracks: three repeated notes, followed by a fourth lower in pitch. Muffled though they were, they managed to raise goose pimples on his arms and neck; tonight they seemed grimly appropriate. Fate knocking on the door, wasn't it? Yes, he was quite sure that's what those four notes were supposed to represent.
Suddenly and without forewarning Malcolm jerked his head to the side, glancing over his shoulder. The move was so quick and unexpected that Trip started. Damn if the man didn't have sixth sense. Or even seventh.
Malcolm pulled his ear-phones off and stopped the piece. "Commander," he awkwardly greeted, turning to him.
"I'm sorry," Trip replied, hesitantly. He took the last few steps to his friend, his eyes falling on the table, on the mug that was there, with its contents virtually untouched. So his guess had been right. "I didn't mean to sneak up on you, or interrupt anythin'."
"It's fine," Malcolm muttered.
He picked up his tea and took a small sip, probably stoically repressing a grimace of disgust; it had been obvious that the beverage was cold.
Taking a good look at him, Trip heaved an inner sigh. It would've probably been easier dealing with a Malcolm Reed unleashing his feelings on the gym's punching ball. This silent and solitary act was a lot trickier to handle. And if he knew Malcolm, he'd probably push back any offer of help. Well, tough luck. Whether the man liked it or not, he was here for him, and here he would remain until things got in the open.
It wasn't long before the grey eyes darted up from the cup and pierced him.
"Look, Trip, I'm just not in the mood for sleep, all right?" Malcolm said directly, as if Trip's thoughts had been printed on his face – which they probably were. The gaze narrowed, pinning him there, giving him no way out. "I'm fine," Malcolm added, but the message was marred by a certain hoarseness.
Raising his eyebrows, Trip bought time. "I came for a snack," he lied. "I didn't feel like supper, before." That, at least, was true.
He moved to the serving cabinet and made a show of perusing its contents. Not that there was much to choose from, at this hour; and, moreover, his stomach was still locked up tight. In the end, just to keep up pretences, he got a plate of oatmeal cookies; then grabbed a glass and placed it in the drink dispenser. "Milk, cold," he ordered. Soon he was weaving his way back through the tables. Stopping at one not too far from Malcolm's, he sat down.
"Don't mind me," Trip said, forcing himself to take a small bite of cookie while he deliberately ignored his friend's critical mien.
Malcolm watched him in silence for a moment. "This is ridiculous," he finally muttered, clipped accent heavy. "You can stop pretending." He turned his head in irritation, fixing a spot on the floor. "You don't need to look after me. I told you, I'm fine."
Okay; so after one and a half years, Malcolm could read him as well as he could read Malcolm.
Or could he.
Trip pulled his face in a lopsided smirk. "So maybe I am not," he croaked out, admitting it even to himself.
If he was honest, he had also come for company, because tonight he wasn't going to find sleep very easily either; he had come as much to get comfort as to give it.
Malcolm's shields slammed down instantly, and empathy warmed the grey of his stormy eyes. "Yeah," he murmured, hardly above a whisper. "I still can't believe it."
Trip shook his head, in silent agreement. His gaze tracked to the earphones and padd., which lay abandoned on Malcolm's table. "So you believe in fate?" he asked, jerking his chin towards them. Surprise flashed for an instant across his friend's face.
"I didn't know you knew classical music," Malcolm breathed out, for once without any ironic winks at the American educational system.
Trip shrugged. "I don't. But aren't those four notes supposed to be fate knockin' on the door?"
"Yes. Beethoven's Fifth."
Eyes on his friend, Trip picked up the glass of milk. "Do you – believe in fate?" he asked again. He took a small sip and replaced the glass on the table.
"I can't, can I?" Malcolm said darkly.
"And why the hell not?"
But actually, Trip thought he already knew.
"It's too easy a way out."
All about Malcolm spoke angry self-recrimination as he added, his consonants crisp – popping and hissing like little explosions, "I'm a bloody Security Officer. I'm supposed to prevent bad things from happening. And fate has nothing to do with that." Once again irritation made him turn his gaze away, to the deckplating.
"Not even in an accident like today's?"
Trip's mouth had worked faster than his mind again. He knew beforehand what reply that would get him.
"Accidents must be prevented."
It was already something that no personal pronoun had found its way in that sentence; though it was undoubtedly implied that he – Lieutenant Malcolm Reed – was the man to blame for the lack of prevention.
They fell silent. Trip was tired; it had been a long and tragic day, and he had no energy, no mental energy to argue, even though he really wanted to say that today fate actually seemed to have proven its definite existence. Hell, if it hadn't been that young armoury man's birthday; if, as a gift, Malcolm hadn't asked the Captain to let the boy join the landing party to the M-class planet they had stumbled upon; if on the landing site there hadn't been that single, bright red flower that had so reminded the young man of his mom's garden; if he hadn't reached out to touch it...
Trip's pulse accelerated as an explosion of memories crowded his mind: the whine of the Shuttlepod's engine, pushed to its limit in the vain effort to reach Phlox in time; the young man – Robert; Robert on the floor, in the throes of agony; Malcolm, face chiselled in stone, holding him tight, as if he could somehow take away the pain by simple physical contact – or perhaps afraid to let him go – muttering would-be reassuring words that must have sounded fake to his own ears; the Captain, dread in his green eyes, talking tautly with the Doc over the comm., desperate for Phlox to perform a long-distance miracle that could not happen; Hoshi, white and horrified; Travis, a block of granite in the pilot seat; himself, kneeling by Malcolm and the fallen man, feeling so terribly, damned-awfully powerless.
And then the thrashing and screaming had suddenly stopped, and Malcolm, looking lost and bereaved, had held but a limp body. The silence that had invaded the Shuttlepod then had been a shocking contrast to the panicked sounds of moments before. Only a choked sob had broken it, coming from Hoshi's chair.
Dammit, why had a young life to be cut short in such an absurd way?
"It was a tragic destiny, if I ever saw one."
Trip realised he had spoken out loud when he refocused on the angry set of Malcolm's jaw.
"I told you: I can't believe in destiny" the Lieutenant spat out. "What happened could have been prevented. Should have been prevented." He squeezed his eyes shut for a brief moment. "I should've… I was his commanding officer."
"Malcolm, please," Trip tiredly pleaded. "I can imagine how you must feel, but---"
"No."
The cutting syllable brought on a long silence.
"Have you ever wondered why our styles of command are so different?" Malcolm eventually asked, carefully avoiding Trip's eyes.
The fire was gone from his voice, leaving a smoky, charcoal quality to it. Trip blinked in surprise, not knowing where his friend was going with this. "Well, because we are different," he blurted out.
"You think that's all there is to it?" Malcolm let out a mirthless huff. "Is that what everyone thinks? Trip Tucker, the warm, affable Southerner who leads his department with a smile on his lips and pats on people's shoulders; Malcolm Reed, the stiff and inflexible Brit, all discipline and rules, and barked orders."
Trip winced. "No, wait a moment, I never said that."
Malcolm lifted his gaze. "Your laid-back approach, the camaraderie, your easy way... It may well not be my nature, but all the same… I would sometimes loosen the bridle, except that…" He tightened his lips. "I'm here to keep people alive, I can be nothing less than unconditionally strict; I must teach discipline at the cost of being resented, keep people on their toes so that they learn to be ready at all times." Eyes narrowing, he concluded huskily, "That's the only way I know to care about them. And I failed."
Numbly, Trip got up and swapped seats, slipping into one at Malcolm's table. He had never thought about that. About the fact that Malcolm's strictness was not only a consequence of his military upbringing, but it was a way to care for his men, to eliminate any weaknesses in them which might place them at risk. It made sense, in a way. Sort of like the parent who disciplines his child because he loves him and wants to keep him out of harm's way.
But--- being resented?
"Your men don't resent you, Malcolm," he said, hoping his words would not fall on deaf ears. "They may snap to attention the moment you glance their way, and probably don't feel free to share a joke with you; but they don't resent you, they respect you. There is a hell of a lot of difference. I know they feel safe with you, as we all do."
Malcolm snorted. "Feel safe!" He scrunched his eyes shut. "If Robert had been properly trained, if I had done my job, he would be in his bunk now, instead of in a body bag."
Trip forced a determined expression to his face. "Hey," he said sternly, "don't do that to yourself. It was an instinctive reaction to reach for that flower. Any one of us could have done it. Unfortunately we can't expect to have everything always under control, to eliminate that bit of randomness that can end up making bad things happen. If…" He waved a hand out, looking for any one item off that fateful list he had silently complied before. "Dammit, if it hadn't been that boy's birthday, he'd be alive now."
Malcolm flinched, and Trip kicked himself. It had been his friend's idea to take Robert down to the planet, as a birthday gift.
"That just goes to prove my point," Malcolm said grimly. "I can't allow myself to have a heart."
"Ah, no," Trip mumbled, fighting a growing feeling of defeat. "Your heart is there, in the right place, and your men know it. Believe me, you didn't fail anyone, you have done nothin' wrong."
For a long moment there was no reply.
"You might find it strange, given my profession," Malcolm eventually said, "but no one had ever…" He engaged Trip's eyes. "No one under my direct command had ever died before; let alone in my arms."
Trip blanched. What he had witnessed today was going to haunt him for days, and he couldn't begin to imagine what it must be like to feel – literally, physically – life slipping away in your arms. Flashbacks lashed out at him once again and he slammed a mental door in their face.
"If it's any consolation, I think all of us who were in that Shuttlepod will have nightmares for a long while," he said, knowing full well nothing he came up with could assuage the pain of that heart-rending moment.
As he often did, Malcolm sought comfort in silence. It gave Trip a moment to study him. This time he feared the man might need something more than the support of a friend.
"Maybe you oughtta seek Phlox's advice," he suggested, tentatively. "No offence, but you look quite rattled."
"No, I don't really want to. I don't need to."
"But Malcolm---"
Just as Trip was going to launch on the impossible mission of convincing his friend that a visit to Sickbay wasn't such a bad idea, the doors swished open and the ship's physician appeared.
Phlox saw them and swivelled their way. "Commander, Lieutenant," he quietly greeted.
"Hi, Doc," Trip replied, one eye to Malcolm who, with a muttered 'good evening', had straightened in his seat.
The tiny smile that was tugging the Denobulan's lips had nothing to do with his usual cheerful self. It gave him a bittersweet expression that made Trip wonder if he was here by chance. Phlox's intelligent gaze took everything in with one quick, professional glance.
"I was – uhm – counting on finding you here, Lieutenant. May I sit for a moment?" the Denobulan enquired with a polite tilt of the head.
That answered Trip's silent question.
Malcolm uttered a rather unwelcoming 'please'. He had automatically clammed-up, got defensive. The grey eyes met with Trip's briefly and Trip could tell that the man was not happy. Maybe he should leave. Malcolm might feel more comfortable; well, if Phlox's visit was what he thought, he didn't have much of a choice: he'd have to go, to give them privacy.
"Guess I'll go, then," Trip mumbled. At least he was leaving his friend in the hands of someone with a degree in psychology.
"You may stay, if you wish, Commander," Phlox unexpectedly stopped him. As he sat down between them, he added, "You too can hear what I have to tell the Lieutenant; it's nothing personal or confidential."
With an intrigued lift of his eyebrows, Trip settled back in his seat.
"I have finished a post-mortem on Crewman Hathaway," the Doctor said sombrely, gaze fixed on the guarded grey eyes. "And I found something that I think you should know."
Malcolm frowned, muscles tensing.
"That flower contains neurotoxins and hemotoxins not unlike those of some creatures on Earth," Phlox continued, "but not in lethal quantities; it's not deadly poisonous."
"Begging your pardon, it seems poisonous enough to me," Malcolm spat out, his voice dark with mirthless sarcasm.
Phlox was unaffected. His blue eyes filled with empathy as he went on, "Indeed, but Crewman Hathaway suffered a severe anaphylactic reaction. Unforeseeable, for the man's medical records contained no history of allergies, and quite violent."
Malcolm looked back speechlessly, and indeed it was a moment before Trip could find his own voice. "You mean to tell us that if any other one of us had touched that flower we'd have been okay?"
Phlox's mouth turned down. "You would have had some reaction – cramps, itchiness, nausea – but you wouldn't have died, no."
"I'll be damned," Trip breathed out. Well, if that wasn't destiny – he mused grimly.
Phlox let them digest the information for a moment; then turned to Malcolm. "I understand how you're feeling, Lieutenant; better than anyone else." His kind gaze didn't move until Malcolm was compelled to meet it. "My job, like your job, is to save lives; but sometimes we have to accept the fact that we are powerless, that no matter how hard we try, some lives will be lost. We can't expect to win every battle, especially against such a powerful enemy as death."
Malcolm still didn't speak, but Trip could see that the tense set of his shoulders had slightly relaxed. It was a beginning.
"Ensign Sato got a little something to help her sleep," Phlox continued, shifting his gaze between the two of them. "If either of you wishes…"
Trip bit his lip. "I think I'll pass, Doc. Might regret it, but I'm done in, and pretty sure the moment I touch the pillow I'll be gone."
"No, thank you," Malcolm echoed softly, looking like his mind was far away.
Phlox studied him for a second longer; then started to rise. "Very well," he said. "If you change your minds, you know where to find me – though first I'm going to check on the Captain," he tagged under his breath, raising his eyebrows knowingly. "I received a report from Subcommander T'Pol, complaining about a ball bouncing off the dividing wall between their two cabins."
Trip winced. "You do that, Doc."
As they shuffled half-heartedly back to their quarters, something suddenly struck Trip. He stopped and glanced sideways at his friend.
"If you don't believe in fate, why were you listening to that piece?" he ventured to ask.
Malcolm looked back thoughtfully; then resumed walking. It took him a moment to find an answer.
"I don't know. That music shatters you in pieces, thunders out in your blood," he quietly replied. "I suppose I needed that."
"I'm sorry I interrupted you," Trip said for the second time, this time meaning it. He suddenly felt he had really intruded into his friend's need for privacy.
A tiny smile appeared on Malcolm's lips, not reaching his eyes. "I can listen to Beethoven any time," he said, and Trip knew what was left unsaid; that he'd been glad for his company.
They got to Malcolm's door. The man raised his hand to trigger it open, but lowered it again, turning to toss Trip a hooded glance.
"Perhaps unconsciously I did feel destiny had played a part today, on that damned planet," he admitted awkwardly. "Perhaps that's why I was listening to that piece."
Trip nodded. It was good that Malcolm had said that out loud; it was a first step towards healing. And yet to hear the pragmatic man accept, even unconsciously, the possible existence of destiny made it all the more true and bitter. He was suddenly overcome by despair.
"I guess we each have an x hour," he said softly, and his voice was veiled with sorrow, because the image of that lifeless young man in Malcolm's arms was breaking through once again. "And when it has to come…"
Malcolm turned to him. He had triggered the door open and his room, behind him, was as dark as the unknown future before them; Trip forced himself to shift his eyes from it to his friend's face. To his surprise, he found a staunch expression on it.
"Our x hour might or might not be predestined, but I promise you something: I'm bloody well going to keep trying to reset a few clocks," Malcolm said in a determined tone.
Trip smiled faintly, feeling incongruously reassured. If anyone could take fate by the horns, it was this man.
"Listen, if you still have trouble sleepin'… if you find you need to talk some more…" he said awkwardly. "Just page me. Any time."
"Thank you, Commander."
'Commander' still slipped in when Malcolm's feelings were raw and needed to be drowned in formality; but that only went to show what a long way the man had come, in this year and a half. Once he had kept his feeling so jealously to himself that Trip wouldn't have even known about them.
"Night," he told him softly.
"Good night."
Trip started along the corridor, towards his own quarters.
"You know…"
Turning, he saw that Malcolm was still in the doorframe.
"Beethoven's Fifth is not only about fate knocking on the door; it's also about the triumph over adversity." The grey gaze narrowed. "And those four notes were used to announce British prime ministers' radio broadcasts during World War II, as they correspond with Morse code for the letter V, for victory."
"And?" Trip wondered, tilting his head.
"And I suppose we must learn to overcome the pain, and the guilt, and the unanswered questions; and get back to work with renewed effort," Malcolm croaked out. "For the others, the ones who remain."
Trip nodded slowly. "That's the right attitude, Lieutenant." This man never stopped surprising him.
They looked at each other, and it was at moments like these that their bond grew stronger.
With a salute, Trip turned on his way. Yes, he didn't know when his hour would come; but here, with this friend beside him, he felt safe.
THE END
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