Here is a 'Friend in Need' story, where I can't really figure out who is the 'Friend' and who is the 'In Need'. Although "The Forgotten" (Season 3) is a beautiful episode, I felt there was a little gap that needed filling. I thought I could make this short added scene work towards that beautiful moment between Trip and T'Pol, when Trip finally lets go and grieves for the death of Elizabeth. Perhaps Malcolm could give Trip a little push towards it, and maybe I could tie things up with his first awkward attempt at comforting him, at the beginning of that season. Hope you like what came out of it. As always, I'll be happy to read your comments.
Roaring Mice did her usual great job beta reading. Thank you!
Trip walked the corridor in a daze. His head was pounding from lack of sleep and his body was aching from lack of rest. The four hours' shuteye Phlox had imposed on him had done hardly anything to make him feel better, marred as they had been by the unsettling dream of Taylor, the young engineer who had been killed in the violent Xindi attack Enterprise had suffered. The daredevil repair job he and Malcolm had just carried out on the hull, after that plasma conduit had ruptured, had been the proverbial last straw. The tension rollercoaster – knowing the fire threatened to blow up Enterprise, managing to extinguish it just in time, realising a moment later that Malcolm had paid the price of his stubbornness and collapsed from heat exhaustion – had drained him of any residual energy he might have still had.
After the Lieutenant had been carried off to sickbay, when Archer had growled at him for shouting the truth to Degra's face - that he was a ruthless murderer - well, in that moment Trip had actually felt his strength, or better his nervous energy, surge through him again. He knew it was a reaction to anger and frustration, and as such would be a short-lived thing, but he had changed into his uniform and endeavoured to funnel it into something constructive.
There had been at least a dozen different places around the ship where his expertise was needed – hell, Enterprise was still barely holding together – but his feet had carried him of their own volition in front of the Armoury door. When he had found himself there he had thought with grim amusement that at least one thing was still in perfect working order: his subconscious. Whether it had led him there jolted by the sight of the unconscious Armoury Officer, or by his own not-so-unconscious desire to blast the Xindi out of the sky, he didn't know. But there he was, so he had pushed the door open and spent an unquantifiable amount of time doing repair work, or pretending to, for concentration had eluded him. The last distressing image of Malcolm had kept flashing through his mind, and after a while he had thrown his tools aside and decided that if he was to succeed in being at all useful to the ship he first needed to check on his friend. Make sure he hadn't been the latest victim in this absurd war.
As Trip turned the last corner, he thought with a shudder of when he had entered sickbay. His heart had already been in his throat, but to see the normally quiet infirmary crowded with so many injured had given him a further shock. He had known that they had suffered a lot of casualties, of course; but somehow he hadn't expected to see the place bustling with such activity. Unable to move further than the couple of steps he had taken past the doors, he had let his gaze wander from one biobed to the other, looking for Reed and feeling his heart ache and his anger flare again at the idea that Degra, their primary enemy, was actually strolling around Enterprise, a guest of the Captain. Finally Phlox had glanced in his direction from across the room and briskly come to meet him, and had informed him that Malcolm's body temperature had been successfully lowered. The lieutenant had been accompanied to his quarters, for there was no available bed for him in sickbay. Trip doubted his friend had had anything to object.
And here he was, now. Coming to a halt in front of Malcolm's door, Trip lifted a hand and triggered the door open. He didn't bother to announce himself. If Malcolm was asleep he didn't want to wake him; and in any case he hoped that with the ship in such a state of disarray his friend wouldn't be too formal.
The room was in semi-darkness but Trip could make out a shape on the bed. He took a step inside and the door slid shut with more noise than it should have made – another thing to fix, eventually. So much for coming in unannounced, he thought. Malcolm, however, did not stir, and Trip felt concern snake through him: this was hardly typical of his usually reactive friend. Could the Doctor, overworked as he was right now, have released him too quickly? Ah, what was he thinking! Phlox was a conscientious physician; and Malcolm had hardly had much rest since the attack – if any at all. That and simmering inside his EV-suit to the point of getting knocked unconscious had undoubtedly left him exhausted enough to make him sleep through almost anything.
Trip took another few quiet steps, closing the space that separated him from the bed. Malcolm was lying on one side, facing the room, curled up on himself as if he were cold, or for protection. He had been stripped of the EV-suit's undergarment and wore one of those sets of T-shirt and pants Phlox kept in sickbay in case of need.
Now that he was closer Trip could see his features: even in dim light they still looked ashen. He had a sudden flash of Malcolm's face as had appeared to him from behind the man's visor, out on the hull. His heart had missed a beat then, realising his friend was out cold. His heart missed a beat now too: with eyes closed, Malcolm looked just as pale and drawn, almost lifeless. His hair was matted and still damp with sweat. It was distressing to see him looking so fragile, and he almost reached out to touch him, to make sure he was alive, stopping at the last moment when his gaze shifted from Malcolm's face to the reassuring sight of the slow and rhythmic expanding of his ribcage. Breathing. Life. Thank God. He had lost his home town, lost his sister, lost eighteen fellow crewmen, lost one of his own team, lost the special bond he'd held with the Captain, lost whole big chunks of his ship, almost lost hope... he didn't think he could manage to lose also his closest friend. Closest friend. Yeah, because lately Jon...
Grabbing the desk chair, Trip sank heavily on it. He just sat there watching Malcolm sleep, allowing himself the luxury of a few moments away from everything and everyone, and relishing the small comfort of his surroundings, where noises from the repair works were muffled and the semi-darkness enveloped him in a soothing embrace. It wasn't long, though, before the voice of his conscience became too loud to ignore; there were too many things to do for the Chief Engineer right now, and he couldn't afford to hide away from them.
Just as Trip was about to get up, Malcolm stirred and rolled limply on his back, raising a lazy hand to his eyes, which cracked open.
"You awake?"
Malcolm's hand flew off his face and he jerked to face him with a sharp intake of air.
"Easy, easy, it's only me," Trip hurried to say, hands held out in a calming gesture.
Malcolm let out a groan as he deflated and relaxed back onto the mattress. "Bloody hell, Trip, I don't need you to do this to me," he mumbled, foregoing his usually crisp accent. There was no humour in the words, nor irritation, for that matter; only tiredness.
Trip watched him lift his hand again and press two fingers on his eyes. "Sorry. Didn't mean to scare ya, just wanted to make sure you were ok," he said, with a self-conscious grimace. "Are you ok?" he asked outright after a moment, a little concerned by Malcolm's unresponsive behaviour.
Malcolm removed his hand and shot him a pained look. "Ok?" he repeated with a mirthless huff. "There are eighteen bodies in sickbay. I was unable to protect this crew and to prevent the ship from taking as much damage as it possibly can, and..." He shook his head. "I honestly don't know what I can do to avoid more deaths, more destruction," he finished, his voice hoarse, an exhausted whisper that carried an undercurrent of despair.
Trip clenched his jaw and looked away. "That's not what I meant and you know it," he bit back angrily, irritated by the helplessness in Malcolm's voice – Malcolm was not supposed to sound helpless. "And what the hell are you talkin' about anyway? You just saved the damn ship – or what remains of it – with your heroics." He turned just in time to see the hurt in Malcolm's eyes before he lowered them.
Trip cursed inwardly. "Look..." He struggled for words.
"I only did what I had to do," Malcolm said in a low voice. "And as far as heroic deeds go, your part in saving the ship was no less... heroic, if you insist in using that word. One doesn't need to end up unconscious to quali..."
"Malcolm," Trip interrupted him firmly. He waited until his friend met his gaze. "Forget it, will ya?" he said tautly. "I'm sorry. I'm feelin' kind of edgy." He passed a nervous hand through his hair. "And I shouldn't be takin' things out on you, of all people," he added to himself.
Malcolm looked at him for a moment, then swivelled his legs off the bed and sat up, closing his eyes tightly as if to fight off a bout of dizziness. After another moment he reopened them, blinked a couple of times and stood up, leaning briefly on Trip's shoulder for balance before heading for the bathroom. Trip heard the tap-water running.
Damn, I shouldn't take things out on Malcolm, Trip silently reproached himself again. But all the anger that was bottled up inside him had to come out in some way or other. What had really made the cork fly off was hearing the helplessness in Malcolm's voice. He told himself it was because his friend had always seemed so strong in the face of difficulties, but the truth was he didn't want to acknowledge the fact that Malcolm's helplessness was also his own. He didn't want to face the fact that their mission might fail. It was a miracle the ship was still holding together and...
"It's still better for you to take things out on me, rather than keep them inside," Malcolm said quietly, interrupting his thoughts. Trip turned and saw him leaning against the bathroom's doorframe, his face dripping wet and a towel in his hands. Malcolm gave him one of his enigmatic smirks and added, without humour but not unkindly, "It's not as if you haven't done it before." Then he buried his face in the towel.
They both knew what Malcolm was referring to. After Elizabeth's death the Lieutenant had tried to offer Trip comfort, in his own awkward way, and Trip, too wrapped up in his grief, had lashed out at him. This was the first time either of them had ever mentioned the incident; they had never talked about it, perhaps knowing they didn't need to, each certain of the other's understanding.
"It's just that… there is so much resentment in here," Trip said, bringing a fist to his chest, after Malcolm had re-emerged from the towel. He didn't like to admit it, because some of it was directed at Jon right now, but it was the plain truth.
"I know," Malcolm replied softly. Pushing off the doorframe, he tossed the towel back inside the bathroom, and Trip thought how unlike the usually neat Lieutenant that action was. Their dire situation was obviously disrupting also the routines of his precise friend.
Malcolm raked a hand through his damp hair, then turned the light on a little brighter and walked to his closet. He got out a fresh uniform - shirt and jumpsuit - and tossed those on the bed. He proceeded to pull off his T-shirt.
Leaning with his elbows on his knees, Trip looked down at his hands. "I can't stand havin' Degra around," he growled. "That sonuvabitch of a murderer! Seven million people dead, seven million!"
Malcolm sighed. He paused, turning the removed T-shirt in his hands thoughtfully. Dropping to sit on the bed, he looked Trip straight in the eye. "And one of them your sister," he said deadpan.
"Damn right, you don't have to remind me," Trip barked as he sprang to sit up. "And I bet there were many sisters among the seven million that were vaporised," he continued in a crescendo of barely restrained anger. "And you wanna talk about the eighteen crewmen we lost? Capt'n wants me to write a letter to Taylor's family. 'Dear Mr. and Mrs. Taylor, I regret to inform you there's nothin' left of your beautiful and smart daughter'," he recited with sarcasm. "Not even a body over which to cry."
Malcolm's eyes filled with concern. "Trip, when are you finally going to acknowledge that your sister is more important to you than the rest of the seven million? That there is no shame in grieving for her more than for all the others?" he asked in earnest.
"Will ya leave it the hell alone?" Trip jumped to his feet. "I'm tired of havin' you tellin' me how I should feel," he ground out. "What makes you think you can lecture me, anyway? You haven't even lost anyone in the attack!"
They were both stock still for a moment, Trip towering over Malcolm, who averted his gaze uncomfortably.
"Right. I'm sorry," Malcolm finally murmured, sounding once more so damn helpless. He picked up his black shirt, and began to slip it on, and Trip fell back onto the chair, feeling like a piece of dirt. He'd done it again. Pushed Malcolm away, the one person who tried to understand him, because lately Jon...
As his friend buttoned up his shirt, painstakingly avoiding looking anywhere else but at the garment, Trip's mind was blank. He was badly scrambled. Since Degra had come on Enterprise the hatred he felt towards the Xindi - and that Xindi in particular - had swelled and swelled, and it was choking him. And to make things worse, the Captain's attitude towards that bastard made him resentful and furious. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep, but all he could feel right now was hatred, resentment and anger; these emotions were overwhelming him and clouding his reason.
He saw Malcolm dare a glance in his direction, his eyes cold and impenetrable; then his friend got up. He started to undo the drawstrings of his sickbay pants. Suddenly he stopped and looked at him. His gaze had softened, and Trip marvelled once more at Malcolm's ability to change so quickly and drastically, one moment shutting you out, the next letting you in.
"You came to see if I was ok," Malcolm said. "But I'm rather concerned about your well-being." Before Trip could reply he added, "You can't go on like this, Trip. Can't you see how much harm you are doing to yourself?"
"Can't do a damn thing about it," Trip replied, a bit too fast.
Malcolm shot him a look, threw his pants on the bed and reached for his jumpsuit. "You must learn to let go." He put one leg into the uniform and then the other, and almost lost his balance, having to fumble for Trip's shoulder again to keep himself upright.
"I can't believe the Capt'n is makin' friends with the man," Trip said darkly after Malcolm had regained his stability. "Askin' me to work side by side with that bastard. What the hell does he think he's doin'?"
Malcolm pulled up the top part of his jumpsuit and zipped it closed in one quick motion. Crossing his arms over his chest, he tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. "Since we entered the Expanse I've had quite a few issues with Captain Archer," he said. "But I can't but admire him for what he's trying to do now. It won't be easy; yet gaining Degra's trust is…"
"You too?" Trip burst out. "Degra is nothing but a cold-blooded murderer! He's the last person we should trust!"
Malcolm stood immobile, watching him with pursed lips and pained eyes. "Look at us, Trip," he said eventually, uncrossing his arms and letting them drop to his sides in a gesture that Trip thought smacked a bit too much of defeat. "We're in bad shape. I can't fight five bloody species of Xindi. I can't even defend us properly against one." Despair had crept into his voice again.
"I never thought I'd see you give up hope, Malcolm," Trip hissed, "Not after that time in the shuttlepod. I thought that little experience had changed your outlook on things." He regretted the bitterness in his voice yet was unable to do anything about it. Worst of all he hated the fact that he knew his anger stemmed from the fact that his own hope was dwindling.
Malcolm's eyes flashed with sudden irritation as he crossed his arms again. "I may feel helpless but have not given up hope," he replied, his voice low and betraying emotion. "I'm holding on to it for dear life, as a matter of fact, because hope is all that is left to us, at the moment." He heaved a deep breath. "Our best chance, our only hope perhaps, is to get through to Degra, and then the rest of the Xindi," he added, more gently. "Make them see how misguided they are. Captain Archer understands that. Don't think that's easy for him, but he's trying all he can to accomplish our mission, save Earth, and to do it he's putting aside his hatred and thirst for revenge. We should learn from him."
Trip felt his chest constrict painfully. He knew that last arrow was for him.
There was a long, tension-filled silence.
Malcolm dropped to sit limply on the bed and for a moment Trip thought he might pass out. But he bent down and proceeded to pull on his boots. The realisation of just how poorly Malcolm looked melted the icy knot that had formed inside Trip.
"You oughtta rest some more, Malcolm. You look beat," he said gently. Probably the first gentle words he had spoken to his friend since he had walked into his quarters.
"How long did I sleep?" Malcolm asked, without glancing up.
"I'm not sure. Can't have been more than a couple of hours, though," Trip replied, making a fast mental calculation.
There was a soft mirthless laugh. "That long?"
"Phlox won't approve of you goin' back on duty so soon."
This time Malcolm looked up. "That's why we won't tell him," he said with the hint of a naughty smile. Trip's concern must have shown on his face for, sitting up from his bent position, Malcolm added, "Look, Trip. I won't pretend to be fine, but I'll be ok. I can't afford to rest now. The Captain needs me. Needs us." He stood up, his face set in a determined expression. "Let's go," he said. "We've hidden in here long enough."
Trip caught him by the arm. "You know I didn't mean to…" He grimaced, looking for the right words. "I don't feel good about the way I just treated you. Especially seeing how any moment, either one of us…" He left the rest of his grim thought unspoken.
"Look who's the pessimist now," Malcolm commented, raising his eyebrows.
Trip shook his head and brought a hand to his eyes. "Seriously, Malcolm. I'm sorry."
"I told you, you're allowed to take things out on me."
Malcolm's voice held a note of genuine understanding, and Trip was grateful. What could be more precious than a true friend, someone who is willing to freely share your burden in difficult times?
"Although it won't come without a price," Malcolm added, as if he had read his thoughts and wanted to prove them wrong.
Trip frowned as they walked to the door.
"If needs be I expect you to confirm what I told Captain Archer, out on the hull, that the signal was breaking. Wouldn't want to end up with an official reprimand on my record for disobeying the Captain's order…"
Trip shot him a look. "You'd deserve one. You scared the hell out of me," he said, meaning every word. He paused a moment before he finally let himself smile. "And carrying you... well, out cold back inside Enterprise wasn't much fun, believe me. Especially with those bulky EV suits."
Malcolm gave a soft chuckle. "Then let me thank you for your efforts."
They got to the door and stopped, and looked at each other, suddenly sombre again.
Trip bit his lip at the thought of what, and especially who, awaited him outside this small haven. "I still feel angry and resentful," he said past a painful lump in his throat.
Malcolm squeezed his shoulder. "You'll learn to let go," he replied softly. "Come on."
He triggered the door open and they plunged once again into hell.
THE END