Just in the nick of time, here is my entry for "What the Hell Happened to the Captain?" month challenge. Set before the Expanse.
I must thank Kathy Rose, if I was able to meet this deadline. She beta read at the speed of lightning in absence of RoaringMice (who, I hope, managed to travel safely to her destination, winter blizzards notwithstanding). Grateful thanks also to Gabi2305, who suggested the challenge in the first place, and encouraged me in my writing.
The title - for lack of finding a better one - is a twist of "Care I for the limb, the thews, the stature, bulk, and big assemblance of a man! Give me the spirit." (Falstaff, from Henry IV by Shakespeare).
§ 1 §
Malcolm forced his eyes to crack open. He wanted to see who it was that had him by the shoulders and was shaking him, trying to make him lose the contents of his stomach. Trip's face, usually cheerful and warm, appeared twisted in some unpleasant emotion. Concern perhaps, or even anger. His mouth was moving, but Malcolm's brain could only register distorted sounds. God, he felt sick. "Stop," he croaked out, but Trip shook him harder, face set in a hard mask as he shouted words that were beyond Malcolm's grasp. Malcolm swallowed back some bile. He couldn't make heads or tails of the sounds, but for some reason he could read Trip's lips as clearly as a book. "What the hell happened to the Captain?" the man was asking him sharply. "Answer me, Lieutenant!"
With a gasp, Malcolm jerked awake. He took in his surroundings and tried to sit up, but Trip's hands – indeed on his shoulders – guided him gently but firmly back down to the biobed. Breathing raggedly, Malcolm couldn't shift his eyes from his friend's mouth, even though now he had no trouble understanding his voice. "Easy, Malcolm," Trip was saying, in a soft tone that was more like him and had nothing to do with that of the Trip of his nightmare.
Malcolm tracked up to blue, sympathetic eyes. Suddenly, a hypospray was pressed to his neck. He flinched away from the cold metal, but a second later it was there again, and its contents were shot into his bloodstream.
"There, Mister Reed. That will help you relax."
Phlox was scanning him, lips pursed in thought. It wasn't long before a feeling of warmth began to spread through Malcolm's body, undoing his tension knots as it progressed. His rate of respiration eased.
"Doc?" Trip quietly enquired, a faint smile pasted on his face.
"I can't find anything wrong with the Lieutenant," Phlox replied with a shrug. "I suppose that's good news."
"What..." Malcolm began, but his mind was jumbled. Only one thing had stuck to it, bleeding into conscious thought. "The Captain?" he asked in trepidation.
"He's fine." Trip frowned uncomprehendingly. "It's you who... Doc?" he enquired again, eyes returning to the man in question.
One hand to an elbow, the other pensively to his chin, Phlox reasoned, "A slight confusion is common, after someone loses consciousness. However, it won't hurt to keep the Lieutenant in Sickbay for the night, as a precaution."
Loses consciousness? Malcolm closed his eyes again – he might experience another nightmare, but he'd take that chance. It couldn't be much worse than this. "Would someone tell me what in the bloody hell is happening?" he managed in one breath.
There was a moment of silence.
"What do you remember?" Phlox asked.
Brilliant. The man was going to start with that. Malcolm wanted answers, not questions, but he felt in no condition to argue. Heaving a patient breath, he searched his memory. "I was on the planet with Captain Archer," he stated firmly, re-opening his eyes.
He was sure about that. The knowledge made him feel better, and he began to sit up, pushing aside Trip's restraining hand. He was glad for his friend's help, though, when, throwing his legs off the side of the bed, he almost toppled over. Phlox regarded him with a critical eye, Trip with a worried one.
"We were scanning the area," Malcolm continued, in order to stall any concerned suggestion to lie down again, "looking for anything that might have sent that signal."
And just where had all that come from? His mind had been blank. He'd blurted the words out without knowing, but they seemed to be making sense, for he got no weird reactions.
"And?"
Trip's gaze bore expectantly into his eyes. Malcolm looked back vacantly.
"What's the last thing you remember?" Phlox nudged him.
"I..."
Damn, what was the last thing he remembered? Slowly, the fog began to dissipate. He saw himself and Archer against the backdrop of a bare, dusty landscape.
"I... told the Captain we were wasting our time, that our instruments weren't picking up any signals and, especially, there was nothing on that rock of a planet that would point to it being home to any intelligent species." Malcolm lifted a hand and rubbed his temples. "I remember telling him we might as well go back to the ship..." He looked directly into Trip's eyes. "Are you sure the Captain is okay?"
"Yeah. Why do you keep askin'?"
"Nothing," Malcolm huffed out. It was daft of him. But unease from his nightmare was still lingering, making him doubt his senses. He saw Trip narrow his gaze, searching his face for clues, and made an effort to look untroubled.
"Capt'n said that all of a sudden you keeled over and lost consciousness," the man said.
Malcolm had surmised as much. "Well, I don't remember that. Where is he now?" He cast a glance towards the decon chamber.
Trip read his thoughts and shook his head. "He's with T'Pol, trying to figure out where the hell that signal went. It's disappeared. If I hadn't been on the Bridge when Hoshi picked it up, I'd think you were all delusional."
"My patient needs rest now," Phlox interrupted in that compulsive good mood of his.
There was nothing Malcolm found more irritating than a cheery physician. Besides, he could find nothing particularly cheery in Phlox's pronouncement. The last thing he wanted was to be forced to lie down in bed.
"Can't I get it in my quarters?" he said confrontationally.
"Though I can't find anything wrong with you, I want to keep you under observation for a few hours, Mister Reed. You'll be my guest for the night." The words were accompanied by an overlarge smile.
"But you said it yourself: I'm fine," Malcolm protested.
Phlox pulled open a drawer. A moment later, he was silently handing him a Sickbay robe.
As Malcolm reluctantly accepted it, Trip patted a hand on his thigh. "Well, I'll see ya," the man drawled, his concern having turned to amusement. He started towards the door, and when he was near it, chimed, "Glad you're okay."
Malcolm acknowledged the words with a lopsided smirk; then, with a sigh, watched his friend disappear behind the Sickbay doors.
Captain Archer was having a strange day. First that signal, coming from a planet that, technically, wasn't even fit to sustain life. Then, Malcolm fainting – in an EV suit, oh joy! And now... now... Archer almost shook his head to clear it, but the look T'Pol was giving him made that entirely unnecessary. It was the Vulcan version of a pissed-off Are you listening? Rubbing his chin pensively, he uttered a non-committal grunt, in the hope that it would do. Suddenly, his ready room felt very small.
She heaved an audible breath. "I have carried out several sensor sweeps of the planet, Captain."
"And?"
Wrong question. T'Pol's eyebrows lifted judgementally, and it took her a second to reply.
"As I said," she eventually went on – and Archer heard loud and clear the just she had refrained from speaking – "my opinion is that there is no point for Enterprise to remain in orbit any longer."
"Well, how the hell can you think that?" Archer blurted out. "You, of all people!"
T'Pol blinked once. It was a meaningful blink. Again, it was the Vulcan version of an astonished What? Her lips pursed imperceptibly – or rather, quite perceptibly – before forming a cautious, almost anxious enquiry.
"May I ask what you mean by that, Captain?"
Archer blinked back. "I mean… that there has to be a logical explanation," he came back, a lot more composedly. He turned to the window to hide a wince. He didn't like to be quick-tempered, especially without a reason. He stretched his neck. His body was aching. He should spend more time in the gym. "I'm not tired," he grumbled, with his back to his First Officer.
There was a pause, during which he realised she hadn't said he was.
"I didn't say you were," T'Pol indeed remarked a moment later.
Archer turned. Her usually unfathomable eyes were definitely assessing him.
There was a chirp from the intercom, then, "Tucker to Archer."
Just at the right time. With a couple of strides, Archer was at his desk. "Go ahead, Trip."
"I wanted to let you know that Malcolm's gonna be okay. Phlox's keeping him overnight, though, as a precaution."
Archer chuckled. "Malcolm must be overjoyed."
"Ah – I'd avoid close contact with him for a few hours, at least until after he's been returned to his beloved Armoury."
Trip always succeeded in brightening up the mood. "I might allow him to launch a torpedo, when Phlox releases him, just to cheer him up a bit. Archer out."
Archer cut the connection and refocused on his SIC. She seemed, after the short conversation, even less reassured that he was still fit to command a starship.
"A torpedo would destroy any microbial life forms that might inhabit the planet, Captain," she said.
Archer smiled, leaning slightly towards her. "T'Pol, it was a joke."
"I see." Her eyebrows lifted. "If that is all…"
"By all means, Subcommander. Have a good night."
T'Pol headed for the exit. She pushed the button to open the door; then stopped and turned.
"We shall remain in orbit, then."
The words weren't shaped as an enquiry but her head tilted to one side, as if to put an unspoken question mark to the sentence.
"Let's give that signal a chance to re-materialise," Archer said.
The door closed behind her, and he leaned back in his chair. He was looking forward to a good night's sleep.
Archer lathered his arms and chest, humming a cheerful tune. He bent his head forward and revelled in the hot water running down his back. Ahhh! Nothing better than a shower to start the day.
After a few minutes, reluctantly, he turned the water off and stepped out of the small enclosure. He patted his chest and arms dry with his towel, flipped it over his head to dry his shoulders, and then tied it around his waist. He used a couple of tissues to wipe a circle in the steamed-up mirror.
Huh. Something felt funny, but he couldn't put his finger on it. With a shrug, he reached for his shaving equipment.
When he spied Malcolm in the corridor, coming from the opposite direction, Trip had no difficulty putting a smile on his lips. In fact, it was difficult to keep the smile from spreading too much. A night in Sickbay was, usually, sheer torture for the Lieutenant, and indeed the man looked quite pissed off. He was walking with purposeful strides, no doubt headed for his quarters, where he'd swap the sweat pants and shirt Phlox had to have given him for a fresh uniform. A shower and a shave would also be on his to-do list, judging by his dishevelled appearance. Time to rub it in.
"Morning, Lieutenant. Slept well?"
"Those sodding biobeds are as hard as rock," Malcolm grumbled as they passed each other. "You'd think they'd design something a bit more comfortable," he complained as he walked on, "for people who need to stay in Sickbay."
"I'll see you in the Mess Hall?" Trip asked, stopping and calling after his friend.
Malcolm stopped too, and turned. "And the Doctor should really keep his pets somewhere else," he went on protesting, "especially if he bloody needs to feed them in the middle of the night!" He blew out a calming breath. "Yeah," he finally replied, in a different tone of voice. "Just give me ten minutes."
Trip couldn't imagine getting ready in ten minutes, but – hey – this was Malcolm Reed, Mister Discipline.
"I'll get ya a few pancakes," Trip called,as Malcolm disappeared around the bend.
"Yes, yes, I'll give you breakfast in a moment."
Porthos was running around him looking rather agitated, and Archer wondered briefly if he had forgotten to feed him the previous night. He thrust one arm into his black shirt, pulling on the sleeve, which seemed a bit long, and did the cuff button. Porthos let out a tentative bark, and Archer frowned.
"Hungry this morning, aren't we?"
He grabbed his jumpsuit. Hell, he must complain to the Quartermaster, he mused as he zipped it up; the man had sent the wrong size of uniform. A bit big, though not by much, really. He wasn't in the mood for taking everything off again, so for today it would have to do. Boots...
"YES, Porthos, one moment!"
Archer stood up and almost tripped over his feet as he went to the cabinet on top of which he kept the beagle's food. He reached for the dog's bowl and... Hold on a moment – reached?
"Why haven't we broken orbit yet?" Malcolm enquired, glancing briefly at his friends around the table. His gaze lingered on Hoshi, who was licking a bit of jam off her index finger. He couldn't help but notice that the lovely linguist managed to turn even that into something worth watching.
"The Captain wants to stick around another day or so," she replied matter-of-factly, oblivious to his thoughts. "Wants to see if that signal reappears."
Her gaze finally met his, and Malcolm knew he'd been caught staring. She didn't seem to mind, judging by her smile, but he did. Every time he found himself with Hoshi in the Mess Hall, he was reminded of the incident where he'd misinterpreted her inquiry of his food tastes and thought she was coming on to him. He'd made an utter fool of himself that time, and he didn't want a repeat.
"Might take advantage of the pit stop and purge a few systems," Trip drawled around whatever food was in his mouth. Trip's breakfasts were quite a feast.
"Good idea," Malcolm agreed. "At least the time won't be entirely wasted." He spread peanut butter on his pancake, wondering what useful use he could make of the day.
"Has Phlox found out what happened to you on that planet?" Hoshi asked nonchalantly before taking a bite of her toast.
Her gaze stayed on Malcolm while she munched on it, waiting for a reply. Did she know how distracting that could be?
"Malcolm?"
"Uh – it was… nothing," he stuttered. "Probably something I ate." He didn't want the conversation to go anywhere near the Sickbay or his personal shortcomings – he'd rather forget about the entire away mission incident. Blimey! Fainting in an EV suit while in front of his Captain! Phlox had been quite perplexed. "You're a fascinating subject of research," the doctor had said, for once with a frown. "I consider myself quite privileged to have you on board."
Brilliant. He must remember to give the Doctor a wide berth, when not absolutely necessary to be in his presence.
"Ah-ha, here comes our resident Vulcan," Trip said.
Malcolm was glad for the distraction. He turned to look at their SIC, who was heading for the Captain's Mess; then back at Trip. There was a glint in his eyes. It was incredible how the man's opinion of T'Pol had changed since the beginning of their mission in space. On the other hand, T'Pol had proven to be slightly different from your typical Vulcan. At least she didn't share her species' widespread belief that Humans had no place in deep space.
The clock above the Mess Hall doors showed 7:29. "Punctual as ever," Malcolm noted.
They watched her raise a hand to the bell to the Captain's Mess, but before she could ring it, the door opened and she found herself face to face with Archer. They remained like that, like frozen in time, looking at each other in silence.
Trip frowned pensively. "There's something weird…"
Hoshi put down her toast. "You could say that," she said in awe.
Malcolm blinked. The only words that came to his lips belonged to a recent nightmare.
"What the hell happened to the Captain?"
TBC
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