In Search Of Tears
Summary: Malcolm is coming to terms with the death of his wife. AU. R/S
Beta: Kathy Rose
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek or any of its characters. This is all written for non-commercial enjoyment.
A/N: I wanted something else for a change. Malcolm angst sounded like an interesting theme to explore. I hope you enjoy the journey.
I also wish to express that I tried to write down Malcolm's feelings as respectfully as I could, in honour of those who have faced deep sorrow in their lives. May the time come swiftly when there is no sadness and pain on the surface of this earth.
Malcolm was standing in front of the coffin made of incense cedar. The sun was shining brightly despite the heavy clouds that were swiftly sailing past, giving a strange contrast to what he unconsciously had come to expect of a funeral. Memories of not so long ago resurfaced: watching old black-and-white movies with his friends in the Enterprise mess hall. But on this day, there were no heavy curtains of rain, gleaming trench coats and dark umbrellas. It was cold, though, with a stiff breeze tousling his dark hair and swaying the delicate flowers on the casket.
No tears would come. Something inside him had changed, transforming his heavy heart into a rock of granite. The hurt had been so strong that he had clamped down on the pain, trying to maintain a delicate balance of sanity and calm. Feelings of guilt and fear were screaming at him, but he held them at bay by sheer force of will, until their cries had become a dull ache.
He had lost her. He had lost the woman that had been the anchor to his drifting soul.
Looking at the coffin, he commanded his right arm to move from his side. Reaching out, he slowly traced the velvet wood with his fingertips.
The service had been short and personal, just the way she had wanted it. Her father had spoken a few words, telling them what a beautiful girl she had been at birth, and how proud he was of her talents and kind personality. He had to stop a few times, overwhelmed by emotion. Then he had expressed his happiness that she had found a good man to love her. Looking at Malcolm, he had taken the hand of his weeping wife and, smiling through the tears, he had assured them that their son-in-law would always be welcome in their home.
After that, Malcolm had spoken, but it had all seemed inadequate. The mask that had fallen over his face did not go away, making him feel like an uncaring and egotistical husband. He wanted the mask to go away so he could start a period of mourning and honour his wife. But a little voice in his head kept whispering, sounding suspiciously like his father, telling him that it is better to bottle up one's emotions. That it is a weakness to demonstrate your feelings. He knew the little voice was lying, and he tried to ignore it, but it did not leave either.
His relatives were standing a few yards away, giving him some privacy to say goodbye. Malcolm knew without seeing that Aunt Sherry would be comforting Madeline, and that Uncle Archie would be talking softly to his father, who of course would not be listening. That thought made his fingers pause on the polished surface.
His father had not cried, either, two years ago, at the funeral of Malcolm's mother, Mary Reed. Only the lines around his father's mouth and the haunted look in his eyes had shown the loss that the Reed family had suffered with the death of its matron.
A muscle in Malcolm's cheek twitched involuntarily. The hand that had caressed the resting place of his beloved wife fell listlessly to his side again. His father had never said it out loud, but Malcolm knew he had taken their childless home as another failure of his son. There would be no new generation of Reeds to "carry on the family traditions."
They had wanted children, but not right away. Nursing and changing diapers of a newborn were not exactly common activities on board a Starfleet vessel. After all, even fraternization was normally frowned upon. Their marriage was the culmination of endless debate at Starfleet headquarters and petitions by Archer and himself. In the end, their superiors had finally understood the need for long-term relationships on deep space missions. But children were a totally different issue. Malcolm could understand that. That was why the couple had decided that both would stay on Enterprise for another few years. After that, they would settle on Earth to raise a family.
It did not work out that way.
Malcolm clenched his hands, his eyes not seeing, but his heart remembering.
She had not wanted any Starfleet brass to attend the funeral, and deep down Malcolm knew it was because of him. When she was diagnosed with a rare case of Chagas disease, a parasitic infection that had been dormant for years, they wanted to stay on Enterprise, hoping against hope that Phlox would come up with a cure. But as the days passed, and her health deteriorated, Starfleet bureaucracy had ordered a transfer to Earth, where she would receive "the best possible medical care." Captain Archer had granted him an indefinite leave of absence, assuring them that they would always have a place on Enterprise.
After arriving on Earth, there seemed to be no personal interest in her well-being from any Starfleet official, save a few compassionate doctors and nurses. On the other hand, there were more than enough health and insurance forms to be filled out and signed. And the hassling of professors and medical students who thought his wife would be a good subject for their medical papers had infuriated him. Malcolm had started to miss the optimistic Denobulan doctor and his easygoing bedside manner.
When an old classmate who now worked in R&D made the suggestion that he should work on his forcefield research to make himself useful while he was on Earth, he had almost clobbered the man in full view of the startled line at the coffee counter.
He'd never leave her side for working on something so trivial.
Malcolm had felt helpless as she struggled with the many hospital visits and medications. Seeing the healthy colour of her skin turn into a sickly pallor. Sensing that she was slowly losing hope after another disappointment in the search for a cure. Malcolm was a fighter, but this was an enemy he could not defeat with his bare hands.
Sometimes he would feel jealousy well up as he saw families walking happily out of the medical center, the health of their loved one fully restored. Then a wave of guilt would wash over him, followed by a surge of determination that he would do anything in his power to help his wife get well.
He remembered that, during this last, turbulent year, there were moments of defiance:
She was pacing inside their small quarters, arms folded. "Phlox told me that these parasites could have been inside of me even before our first mission into space. Can you imagine that? I got these… these things on Earth, during my stay in Brazil. And to think I was afraid of what could happen in deep space. This must be the irony of ironies." She had bitten her lip, but a glimmer of pride had also come in her eyes and there was a hint of a smile. "We're going to survive this. I beat the Xindi and their torture. I can do it again."
A deep sadness filled his being when he thought of moments of desperation:
Her delicate features were marred by infinite weariness and pain. The hand he was clasping seemed too small, almost that of a child. And her once so melodious voice had become a hoarse whisper. The pain he himself had felt then had been almost physical. She knew this would be her last stay in the hospital. When he had entered her room that morning, she had already started to make an invitation list for the funeral. He had objected vehemently, arguing that the specialist in Mexico would contact them this week about a new treatment. She had not interrupted his outburst, but when he had paused, she had said only one word.
"Malcolm."
He started weeping then, holding on to her, begging her to stay. To fight. She had cried with him, saying, "I can't do it any more," over and over again.
Two weeks later, she was gone.
And now he was wearing this mask.
The Enterprise crew was starkly absent at the funeral. Their friends and colleagues had been on a diplomatic mission to Andoria, when Malcolm had contacted Enterprise to inform them of her death. Archer had spoken consoling words, even as he was evidently struggling with the news himself. The question had been visible in the captain's tear-filled eyes: How could such a young and vibrant woman be the victim of such a horrible disease? It was a question that Malcolm asked himself many times.
Why?
Why her?
The captain had insisted that the crew return as soon as possible to pay tribute to their beloved friend, and Malcolm had only made a token objection, feeling strangely relieved that he would not have to go through this alone after all. He would have his family from Enterprise with him. A memorial service would be held in fifteen days.
A warm little hand touched his cold fingers, shaking him from his inner musings. He looked down into the sky-blue eyes of his four-year-old niece. Madeline's daughter was gazing solemnly into his storm-grey ones, as if she understood his grief completely. She tugged at his hand, and asked in a sincere, but, oh so young, voice, "Did Aunt Hoshi go to heaven?"
The cold rock that had settled in his chest seemed to move a bit, causing a lump in his throat. He closed his eyes tightly, feeling a burning sensation behind the lids. He swallowed a few times, but the lump didn't move. Aware that the young girl was still waiting expectantly, he squeezed her hand and nodded.
"Malcolm." A soft hand touched the sleeve of his dark overcoat. It was his sister. He opened his eyes with difficulty, but they were still dry. Madeline was looking at him with sadness and a hint of worry. "We're taking Aunt Sherry to the reception area. Will you be all right?"
How could such a simple question have such depth? He searched his sister's face, taking in her red-rimmed eyes, then nodded again. He let go of his niece's hand, and fondly stroked her blond hair for a moment. As Madeline gently led her daughter away, he heard the little girl say brightly, "Mummy, heaven must be a really nice place if Aunt Hoshi is there."
A shadow fell over the grounds as the crowd moved away. He looked up toward the sky. Billowing clouds were starting to take over the last patches of blue, smothering the tentative beams of sunlight.
He felt cold.
"Malcolm?"
Surprised by the familiar voice, Malcolm turned his head again. Stuart Reed was standing a few feet away. Even though his mind was holding back a tide of turmoil, Malcolm could see something was off from the way his father was standing. His countenance was… awkward. And that was not a word he ever thought applicable to the stern Stuart Reed.
Unconsciously, he put his hand on the casket again, trying to draw strength from his wife and at the same time being protective of her. He was not up to another discussion. His mouth turned into a grim line, and his shoulders tensed.
His father took a few steps toward him. "Malcolm, I…" the clipped voice of the senior Reed faltered for a moment. "I'm sorry."
Malcolm studied his father. He was confused by what he saw there.
Haunted eyes.
His mask started to crack. No! The voice in Malcolm's head was not a whisper any more; it had become an angry roar. He's lying! A Reed does not need to explain his actions! Malcolm shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the warring memories and principles ingrained in him as a boy.
His father's voice sounded different now… vulnerable. "Don't do this to yourself. Don't be like me." Stuart swallowed. "It hurts too much that way."
The older man looked at him pleadingly, and then took another tentative step toward Malcolm.
A big drop of rain fell on Malcolm's shaking hand. It was at that moment that he could almost hear her voice say, "It's okay to cry. You can let go now."
Malcolm hid his face in his hands. The cold rock of restraint inside of him fell away, opening a floodgate of buried emotions. Stuart Reed embraced his son as Malcolm's shoulders shook from silent sobs.
The heavens wept with him.
THE END
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