This is the first story I've written since 2012. I'm nervous and hope you like it, and gratuitously begging for reviews! :)

"A beach is not only a sweep of sand, but shells of sea creatures, the sea glass, the seaweed, the incongruous objects washed up by the ocean." Henry Grunwald

Takes place just after "These Are the Voyages". Alternate take on what actually happened.

Summary: Trip died in These Are the Voyages, didn't he? Or…

But Trip was dead, and he'd just… left. Left it all behind. His career. His friends. His sanity, perhaps. The idea had been there, that he might do this. That he might keep going, not return, and not have to admit that he was seeing his dead friend.

x-x

Malcolm let his feet scrape through the leaves, releasing the scent of autumn, and of school, and of new beginnings, and of death. Somewhat appropriate, he thought, moving his eyes from the leaves on the forest floor below him, through the mist to the trees scraping the blue sky above, looking anywhere but at –

He blinked and lowered his gaze, staring purposefully this time, willing it away. It. Him. Trip. Trip, who was there beside him, always there, still in that same foolish blue jumpsuit they have to wear as uniforms, walking beside him, God, he could even hear the man's feet sliding through the leaves, which was impossible, right? Because the man was dead, and had been so for, since, since –

Malcolm stopped, closed his eyes, and stilled. His heart was pounding in his chest, his breath short. He inhaled deliberately, exhaled slowly, trying for a sense of control. The place was damp, the fog burning off, the smell of the leaves overwhelming. It should have been calming.

"I love the trees here. I brought Lizzie here once when she visited."

And *would* have been calming if Trip would just. Shut. Up.

The visions, he'd been having them since Trip had died. He'd tried ignoring them. That had not worked. Obviously. And he knew he should speak to Phlox about this. Would have done, but he'd been hoping they'd just go away, and they'd all been so damn busy – but that wasn't it. He was afraid of his own thoughts on the subject, some of the things he'd considered as the reasons why this was happening, as possible options for stopping this. Of what all this meant about the state of his mental health. Or maybe he'd been afraid that if others knew what was going on, and what he was thinking, they'd – he wasn't sure. That he'd end up shunted off somewhere "for his own good" or what have you, or drugged up and separated from the service, with the resulting disgrace to his family, and one could not have that, could one, oh, no; no insanity amongst the Reeds, or at least not so that others could see it. God, it'd be better if he –

Malcolm felt a sudden chill, and pulled his jumper sleeves down over his hands, wrapping his arms around himself. He hadn't thought to bring a coat. He'd left during the hubbub of the reception, all congratulations on a job well done, welcome homes, handshakes, happiness, and none of that mattered, because Trip was still dead, and he'd just… left. Left it all behind. His career. His friends. His sanity. Perhaps. Or not quite. But the idea had been there. That he might keep going, not return, and not have to admit that he was seeing his dead friend. And he'd been sorely tempted to keep going, keep running, until sanity – he snickered – had prevailed, and instead he'd settled on finding a few minutes of peace, perhaps, in these woods, before he had to go back and –

"The redwoods are cool, aren't they?"

He steeled himself, purposefully ignoring the voice. He'd been hoping that returning home, to Earth, might somehow… he wasn't sure, actually. He rubbed a hand, still wrapped in his sweater, across his forehead. Maybe he'd been hoping that he'd feel more grounded here. That the distance of space and time from what had happened might give him… something… and make all this stop. But of course, it had not.

Malcolm opened his eyes and started walking again, as if he had a purpose. He supposed he did, in a way. He remembered this place well from his days at the academy – it had been one of the places he'd go when he needed to be alone and to think. Most people, unknowing, assumed Muir Woods was only about the giant redwoods, but there were maples and oaks and laurels as well, the leaves rustling beneath his footfalls, the place so close to the city, yet a world away from it.

"The trees here are nothing like back at home in Florida."

This wasn't some odd side effect of exposure to some alien substance. The timing was wrong for that. The visions, hallucinations, had started only after Trip had died, only once they'd begun their return to Earth. There had been no opportunity for exposure to –

"I wonder if T'Pol has ever –"

"Please, God," Malcolm stopped and held up a hand, forcing himself to meet the eye of the other man. "Trip, stop. I need you to just…" He closed his eyes for a moment, then forced himself to look at Trip again. "You're supposed to be dead."

Trip cocked his head to the side, seeming to consider, then dismiss that fact. "And yet, here I am."

"Lucky me," Malcolm replied dryly. He walked away from Trip, off the path and to the base of one of the larger trees. Putting a hand against the bark, he lowered himself to a seat on the brown needles at its base, and started picking at one of the ferns growing up between them. It was warmer now, here in this patch of sunlight, the cool in the forest air refreshing rather than chilling. He tried brushing some dirt off his trousers, giving up when he realized it was useless. His hands were just as dirty as his trousers. He wasn't quite sure why that was so.

"Listen, you keep saying that I'm dead, but I'm obviously not." Trip stood with his arms out, as if taking in the woods around him. He strode towards Malcolm, squatting in front of him, hands draped casually across his knees. "If I were dead, why would I be here with you now? That makes no sense, Malcolm."

"You're a figment of my…" Malcolm waved a hand vaguely.

"I keep telling you that I'm not dead." Trip sat with a huff. "You need to go see Phlox."

"That might be… difficult," Malcolm said, eyes moving from the fern between his fingers, to the man in front of him, and back to the plant. "I believe I'm AWOL." He looked to Trip again. Trip's eyes had gone wide. "I left the ceremony, changed out of my uniform, left my communicator behind, and I've been gone, what?" Malcolm looked at the angle of the shadows around him. "Has to be six hours, now. They'll be looking for me."

"So maybe you should head back, meet them."

Malcolm leaned against the trunk behind him, bracing himself against it. "I'll be arrested. Court-martialed. Discharged."

"Not if you can get to Phlox first," Trip replied.

"What the hell will I say?"

"How about the truth?" At the look on Malcolm's face, Trip chuckled. "Seriously." Trip pointed at him. "You tell Phlox that you're seeing someone you think is dead, they're not going to be so worried about you being AWOL." Trip stood and held out a hand. "It's going to be fine." Malcolm looked at him doubtfully, and he waved Malcolm up. "Come on."

Malcolm grasped Trip's hand and levered himself to standing. He started walking, back the way he'd come.

"It's going to be fine, Malcolm," Trip said from behind him.

Malcolm kept walking, throwing back over his shoulder, "No, it is not."

x-x

Please, please review, and let me know what you think of this so far.