As usual, I own nothing, I'm dabbling in Paramount's world.
COMPREHENSION
I didn't attach any significance to the medal they'd given me. It no longer mattered to me that they considered me a hero. I had done what had to be done; in my mind there was no alternative. If others wanted to consider it heroic, they could. I didn't.
Not a day went by during my leave that I wasn't told how heroic I was, how by letting myself be tortured instead of T'Pol I had advanced peace between humans and Vulcans, how they couldn't imagine what I'd been through, what an inspiration I was.
I didn't see it. I had done what had to be done, and that was keeping my crew safe. If it meant sacrificing my own safety, so be it. There had never been a doubt in my mind.
I didn't want the leave; it was forced on me. I was given time to recover from the unimaginable stress, they told me. I didn't see what I needed to recover from. Once my physical wounds had healed, I was ready to return to duty. The Oxoan prison had just been a first contact gone wrong. It wasn't the first, nor would it be the last.
Starfleet Psychiatry told me that I was having a delayed reaction. They were wrong. I had reacted, when I was in the torture chambers. I howled. Every time. It was my release, it was how the pain, the anger, the suffering left my body. T'Pol may have heard. If she did, she told nobody, and she will not. That I am sure of. I reacted again when I was released from Sickbay. Trip had walked me to my quarters, then wisely left me alone. Porthos came running, and when I saw him, I cried. I cried for the pure injustice of it all.
Nobody understands that I've moved on. That by howling in the torture chambers, I was able to bear not just the physical and emotional pain.
Except Malcolm.
Somehow he was the last person I would've expected to understand. Then I realized that he is prepared to do what I did and more every day of his life. Like our run-in with the Romulans.
I looked at his face and saw what nobody else had: comprehension.
Malcolm knows.