by Xenutia


Rating: PG
Category: Friendship/Angst/some Humour/some Romance in later parts
Codes: R/S
Summary: Reed awakes from an accident to find himself held prisoner in a tank without windows or doors, and with no idea how he got there. As he slowly pieces together the events leading up to his capture, he is forced to re-evaluate a lot of things . . . including a certain comm officer.
Author's Notes: Usually, I like to keep my stuff within canon, and try to operate along similar lines to my first (monstrous) fic, using all characters and not focusing too exclusively on ships—but occasionally I feel like I want to have some fun and come up with weird stuff like this! So, here's the some romance in later parts' I was on about . . . and huge thanks to shi shi again for throwing her two cents in on this. It's not only pulling me up on the kinks in this part but starting the ball rolling for the next (I have loads of ideas now, thanks girl!).
E-mail: sorted@witzend.fsbusiness.co.uk


FOUR

Alone in his cell, Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut, knowing only moments would pass before he was compelled to open them again; her time was fading fast. Unaware of what he did, his fingers crept for the slashed neckline of his shredded beige desert shirt, tucking themselves gingerly beneath the sweaty fabric at the top of his spine, and pressing without artifice against the gash drawn between his shoulderblades. It had begun to itch in this last hour, and that, he knew, was a sign of its starting to heal . . . but that stickiness still met his fingers, and when he brought his hand back in his line of sight, he saw that the tips were red, each tiny swirl in the skin brought into sharp and bloody relief. Something in him couldn't equate the numb robot studying his own blood without concern or understanding to the man that had quivered at the touch of a woman's hair on his face—a woman, who, until today, had seemed more a girl to him. The memory was there, sharp enough to hurt far more than the wound he had knowingly angered, but it belonged to someone else. Either that man, the one that had found his introspection cut short by a small female hand splashing him with a flick of her wrist across the water's surface was Malcolm Reed, or else the military machine sitting idly by while that woman was murdered was he. One had been an impostor, but here and now, he had no idea which.

He willed himself to keep his eyes closed against the reminder that shared this room with him, and allowed himself to dwell on that other man's all-too-vivid memories.

He did not see the counter click from 00:41:59 to 00:42:00.

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He had fought her pleas by the pool to the last, citing protocols lost and buried until today, fabricating a barrier between her insistent questions and his failing modicum of control; but still, though her requests to swim out to the island had been positively refused, he couldn't help but feel that in some less obvious way she had won. From her impassive face she had known his arguments for what they were—excuses flimsy as the curtain of spray, breakable by a breath of wind, but beyond her ability to refute. He was her superior officer, and she would do as she was told . . . but in hindsight, Malcolm felt his mouth go dry at the lowness of his tactic.

I'm sorry, Ensign, but until I see a proper analysis of this water I don't intend to allow any subordinate of mine to submerge themselves head to toe in it. No matter how much they blink their big eyes at me, he thought, but did not say.

She had pouted, deliberately he knew; but still he wondered now, with that sick flutter in his ribs reprising itself joyously as if thrilled by the opportunity, if that half-facetious pout had been designed to disguise real disappointment on her part. The realisation helped his conscience none.

All she wanted was a swim. Something she probably hasn't done in over a year. You wouldn't even let her do that, and now she's going to die without ever having . . .

He choked the thought then and there, knowing that if he allowed the recriminations to enter in, they would take root, tearing up the pleasant memories she had given him like ivy slowly plundering a wall of its foundation bricks. Before long, he would remember her only for this hour of agony, and the knowledge that he had failed her in every way.

00:43:00 came and went. Malcolm curled up under the bench, drawing his knees up to his chin and firmly lacing his treacherous hands together around them until cramp took hold in his right arm. He covered his eyes with the palm instead, knowing that within moments he would be compelled to take it away again, but taking refuge in this slight darkness as long as he could. The siren called, and this sailor was powerless to resist.

He could still see her face, if he closed his eyes, if he willed himself away with every battered shred of spirit he had left; he fled back to that afternoon by the lake with a poison cocktail of relief and dread bubbling painfully in his stomach. She had looked at him, that he remembered with bitter fondness. She had looked at him, one of those special looks which was neither exasperated nor truly accepting, but somewhere in the unreadable haze between. Spray kicked up around them, alighting in her hair and settling like tiny diamonds beading the black. In his mind, for one precious second, there were no numbers, no cold equation, and all that consumed him was the dilemma of the deep black water beside him and the pleading, faintly hardened dark eyes in front of him.

Don't look at me like that, he said, striving for his old, quiet assertiveness.

Like what? she replied tightly.

Like I'm a bad dad that won't let his kid have an ice cream.

She half-turned her right shoulder to him, facing inland once more . . . and away from the ebony lake. It makes no difference to me, Lieutenant, she murmured. In the darkening afternoon the flash of her eyes and the pale glimmer of her even teeth were bright as milk quartz. Without looking at him, her eyelashes lowered, she muttered: Thanks for letting me take a look around.

And, bugs forgotten and bare toes curling in the cooling grass, she made as if to leave.

Malcolm, even those hours on, couldn't understand why he had done what he did next—he shot out his hand, reflexes alight like little dots of fire at his nerve-endings, and tipped her elbow with his palm.

Ensign . . . His voice died as her eyes fell questioningly on him, and his hand slackened and self-consciously slid away. We don't have to be back at the rendez-vous for a few hours. I'm sure there's plenty more to see. It was the closest he could come, the closest he had ever come, to an apology.

She blinked, startled. What did you have in mind?

He withdrew his phase pistol and held it a little away from him with a shrug. The dark eyes that followed his movements were still distant, even cold; but a hint of a smile teased the corners of her mouth. According to the captain, a phase pistol starts a very good campfire.

So a campfire it was.

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Malcolm had extended his spread palms to the spout of red flame, ostensibly because the night had grown unexpectedly cold as the light withered into tattered rags glimpsed in moving shadow; but secretly, he did so because a vanity existed somewhere inside him that this was the proper thing to do. That it was the only thing to do.

The distant island had been swallowed in a darkening sea-mist to the west, its solid rise a row of jagged black teeth against a sun yellow as egg yolk and shot through with wisps of spiralling madder, like trails of blood caught in the sun's dying amber vapours. Now, as dark descended, the island and its magnificent lake were black shapes swarming through the wavering heat-haze of the campfire he had lit. The campfire he had lit for Hoshi. To stop her pouting.

He was going soft.

She sat with her knees drawn up under her chin and her arms clasped around her legs, her bare toes wriggling at the comfortable throw of warmth. He could not help but notice that the nails had been painted a liquid gold the colour of the fire-fly flecks that danced in her eyes, a surely unplanned and unconscious complement. Hardly Starfleet issue . . . but he let it rest. He couldn't help but like the way the fire's reflections danced in their bright mirror-shine.

We should have brought marshmallows, he mused, gazing distantly into the fire, a wistful smile painting his lips. It felt warm on his face, even though a different heat to the one thrown by the fire. The shapes in the flames melted into patterns, first a mist, then a dancing woman, finally an oriental dragon. If we really wanted to push the boat out we could make it chestnuts.

She smiled fluidly back at that, the same remote stillness settling on her. she replied, firmly. Chestnuts seem more . . . refined. Sophisticated.

I'd have to agree with you there. Plus they sound just like machine-gun fire if you don't prick them properly.

There was a silence, and it was comfortable. For once Malcolm did not feel condemned for his lack of words. It occurred to him then as it never had before—despite Hoshi's apparent love of language, she could be oddly understanding of the reluctance he clung to, and so often she used her own arsenal of words as if each cost a small fortune; to great effect, but without any degree of verbosity. There was none of the unadulterated flood he would have expected from a young, gifted linguist. The dichotomy, he must admit, was intriguing.

Thank you, she said, suddenly. She was staring into the fire, her dark eyes like distant black holes devouring the light. He tore his eyes from the flaming dance to look at her, startled.

For what?

For letting me take a look around today. You didn't have to. Her gaze was suddenly on him, direct, even challenging. The fingers of her right hand twisted lazily in the silvered grass, tearing up root and blade with her knuckles. Whatever the bugs had been, it seemed the fire had scared them away. Somehow I didn't expect you'd agree to it. I don't think most would. She smiled, slyly, and he knew if she were laughing at anybody then she was laughing at him. T'Pol certainly wouldn't.

I'm sure Commander Tucker would have jumped at the chance of a little exploring, Malcolm replied reasonably. He was unable to tear his eyes away from her mutilating fingers, fascinated by their sudden twist and tug. Only I assume he'd prefer the marshmallows.

Hoshi casually threw a handful of shredded grass on the fire. Isn't a campfire a violation of safety protocols? I'd have thought the smoke could be seen for miles. We'll have every native for a hundred miles come charging over the hill any minute. It'll be like that scene in Zulu' all over again.

Probably. I mean, yes, it is against it . . . normally I wouldn't dream of it.

Then why do it now? She paused, watchful, and foolishly, for a fleeting moment, he thought her unsuspecting attack on his guilty heartrate was over and done. An instant later he was forced to realise it was not nearly so unsuspecting as he had imagined.

She tossed more grass into the flames and watched the blades blacken in into spider-fine threads of gold-lit ash. I know you're afraid of the water, Malcolm, she said.

Whatever gave you that idea, Ensign? He said it with as much dignity as he could muster, but that was regrettably little. The moment he turned his eyes away she would know.

I don't mean to sound . . . rude. But it's obvious, Lieutenant. After drinking that water and lighting this fire, I don't buy that you wouldn't agree to a swim because you were concerned for my safety.

Despite its amounting to a confession, Malcolm's desire to turn his eyes away stole over him again, flooding him like the waterfall he could distantly hear in the distance. There's a big difference between drinking a mouthful of water and chucking ourselves into potentially shark-infested waters. How did we know what was in there? Man-eating eels, maybe. Forgive me but I didn't much feel like being a main course.

We had our scanners, she said quietly. Somehow the soft tone stung him in a way a yell could never have done. Nothing bigger than a bug, you said. Before we landed.

Funnelwebs are no bigger than a bug', but sit on one and you're still dead.

Hoshi was silent a moment. She had retrieved a stick from the edge of the fire where the flames had yet to taste and catch hold, and was dilligently scraping a furrow in the turf as if prospecting for gold. As, he mused twistedly, was precisely what she was doing.

I know what it's like to be afraid, Lieutenant. If there's one thing you've taught me it's that being brave doesn't mean you're not afraid. It's not how you feel . . . it's what you do that counts.

Malcolm was sure that, if he had been able to see his own burning face, it would be as red as the heart of the flames. The comfortable warmth had grown uncomfortably hot. The captain knows, he said, quietly. But no-one else. I'd appreciate it . . .

If I didn't tell anyone. She grinned. Only if you don't tell about the spiders.

Oh, so they're spiders now, are they?

Hoshi leaned over, and aimed a swipe at his arm. He deflected it effortlessly, his hand snapping up to connect with hers and twisting to capture her slim wrist swiftly; for that instant he regained the control he normally held so well over his own features. He challenged her with impenetrable sternness.

The fire spat softly in the silence.

What are you afraid of, Malcolm? she said in a murmur.

Malcolm had opened his mouth to reply when Hoshi's head darted abruptly to one side, straining her ear towards the flames with intense concentration crinkling her smooth brow. Do you hear that? A sort of hissing sound?

Hissing sound? Don't tell me there are snakes now as well.

She waved him quiet with her free hand, listening. she announced, a moment later. Is it raining?

Malcolm was about to reply in the negative when thunder tore the marine-blue sky apart. The rain that had barely registered as a hiss of vapour in a roaring fire suddenly descended like a downpour in the deeps of the rainforests—even as Malcolm pulled Hoshi to her feet by her captive wrist, the fire that had commanded such violent heat was merely a rising pyre of windblown ash reaching for the shattered sky.

Race you, Hoshi shouted. She had tugged her hand free and was gone before Malcolm even knew that she had spoken.

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They ran, Hoshi's bare toes sinking into the soft ground, the cuffs of their uniforms soaked dark around their ankles by wet grass and wetter earth. Imprints of her slender soles and his heavy boots blazed across the land like a scar. Malcolm slowed his sprint to match hers, but deep down, he wanted to run—to just take off across open ground with the driving rain stinging his upturned face and the dark malevolence of the boiling thunder overhead, casting ever-changing shadows on the fields below. He hadn't run like this in far longer than any human should have to admit to.

They raced into a clustered grove of trees, mangled mud and grass squelching wetly at their feet, the stormy moonlight filtered into lightning-blue flecks by the dense canopy of leaves; the rain cascaded like the waterfall they had abandoned from the outermost ring of branches and formed a milky curtain. Hoshi skidded to a halt in the instant before Malcolm, her face turned up to the sky, her head back, drinking in the water as he had done only earlier that day. Then she laughed, and the sound rang musically through the trees in time to the rain's percussion. She seemed completely unaware of him, watching her silently as she smoothed her drenched satin ribbons of hair back with her palms.

I won, she declared.

Malcolm smiled, but his wet lips felt oddly senseless. Yes. Yes, you did.

Hoshi's brow creased suspiciously, and a single raindrop dripped from the end of her nose. You didn't let me win, did you, Malcolm?

He hesitated, numb mouth barely open, damp, icy air whistling through his teeth.

Did you, Malcolm? she repeated.

I was pacing myself, he floundered.

Hoshi's tiny hand flashed forward, and smacked him on the arm sharply.

Ow! Might I remind you it's an offence to strike a superior officer?

Well, you'd know all about being superior, she teased, and tapped him again, harder this time. Malcolm skipped lightly back out of range. He was chuckling softly as he palmed water from his eyes, and sprinted back into the tepid grey haze and speckles of violet light and the deep, damp woody aroma of the pocket beneath the trees.

He found Hoshi already huddled at the base of one great ashen-barked tree, her hands clasping her elbows and her bare feet stamping rhythmically in the mire. She was giving tiny, breathless giggles through the chatters of her teeth as he came back.

Don't let me win next time, Hoshi said levelly, between heavy chatters.

I won't if you don't hit me next time, Malcolm returned, with equal, perhaps even greater, civility. He ushered her back against the broad trunk with a wave of his hand, and placed himself between her and the rain, extending his arm instinctively across her as a shield.

What are you doing, Lieutenant? she asked, the amused tug of her mouth and her slender black eyebrows almost lost in the dark.



She put her head on one side, her smooth coffee skin slick with water. You've put yourself between the little lady and the nasty thunderstorm. She said this last with the guileless, pouting baby-voice of a child . . . but it was not a child's body that brushed against him in the dark, and whispered with the sounds of damp fabric as she moved.

I'm your superior officer, he attempted weakly.

She nodded. So you keep reminding me.

No, I mean . . . it's my place to ensure your physical wellbeing during an away mission. Can't have you catching pneumonia.

Her smile widened, never quite breaking into a grin, hovering in the suggestive void between it and sinking back into the dark. So . . . you're suggesting we share body heat?

Malcolm swallowed, silently thanking the cold breeze for its dampening effect. The few drops that fell from the whispering leaves fell down the neck of his uniform and begn to cut icy swathes down his back. That would be the logical course of action.

Ah. And we must always have the most logical course of action, Hoshi teased.

He wondered what she meant by that.

Hoshi's warmth was suddenly against him, accepting his suggestion, and Malcolm felt his heart speed up. It rose from a steady, physically exerted pound to a hot, frantic patter that echoed in his skull and left a hateful, dry taste in his mouth. He closed his arms carefully around her shoulders, feeling hers come up around him, and wished, instantly, that he had never made the suggestion.

It's bound to clear up soon, he said crisply, injecting into the awkward moment all the professional coolness he could marshal. It's just a matter of waiting for the worst to pass and running for the shuttlepod. That's if I can remember where I left it in the dark. He was speaking softly, or as softly as the intermittent thunder would allow, but he couldn't understand why he should feel the need to keep his voice so low. There would be nobody, in this terrential downpour, to hear them.

All right. Okay. She sighed, and Malcolm shivered as her breath fall warmly on his neck. she continued, breathily, fighting for control of her chattering teeth, what do we do to pass the time till then? Play I Spy?

Malcolm laughed gently, merely an outrush of breath that crystallised on the frosty air. The feel of Hoshi's hands on his back was making him feel lamentably passive, even tender. And it frightened him. Hours later, with Hoshi gone, he would admit that the unaccustomed sensation, of being wanted, maybe even needed, had frightened him far more than the water had done.. You start, he returned.

Hoshi brought her head up to look at him, the glowing paleness of her eyes like homing beacons in the darkness, and Malcolm had to fight not to make a sound. Earlier today he had found himself wishing the nervous, inexperienced Ensign would come back; now he was beginning to like the new, improved Hoshi Sato far better. Because she trusted him. This shivering bundle of warm, soft flesh trusted him. He would add innocent' to the list of shivering and warm and soft . . . but he was beginning to realise, too late, that it would be a lethal misconception to think of Hoshi as innocent.

I spy with my little eye . . . I feel like such an idiot . . . something beginning with she obliged.

Don't feel like an idiot, Ensign. Treat it as an exercise in observational skills. And I think you're probably looking at

Hoshi sniggered, and he felt her shudder against him with suppressed mirth. You're not going to let me win this time, are you?

Absolutely not. I spy with my little eye . . . something beginning with . . .



Malcolm made a tiny growl in his throat before he could stop himself. Something tells me I won't have to let you win, Ensign.

Hoshi rocked fractionally on her heels, trusting to his support to keep her balanced—as, he knew, she had been doing in silence and in less literal ways throughout this whole mission. I spy with my little eye something beginning with . . .

Her eyes, the only point he could make out clearly in the lampblack darkness, roamed in slight, darting glances over his face; to his eyes, his mouth, his hair. Drinking in each, her gaze unflickering, her body straight but yielding in his arms. He thought it odd—and yet, not so odd—that she should be so trusting of him. She was a beautiful, smart, beguiling young woman, and he . . .

. . . well, it was no secret that his soft spot lie with the only form of companionship he had the stomach for. She should be nervous of him.

She was not.

Malcolm's hands slid, eloquently, along her back, placing one light, upward sweep across her shoulderblades as if plucking harp strings, removing his flattened palms, stroking upwards again. She leant into the caress, he was sure—but it was too slight, too silent, and a moment later he doubted that as anything more than his imagination.

he asked. She nodded, her eyes never leaving his.

Thank you.

Malcolm shrugged it away, his hands still moving in this prescribed pattern. It's only my duty, he replied.

No. I mean . . . for the past nine days. I couldn't have done it without you.

What are you on about, Hoshi? Those people loved you. Watching you down here I can believe that Hoshi Sato gets whatever she wants. I barely put two words together for a whole week, and the one thing they did ask me to do . . .

At last she looked away, down, and his hands slowed, hesitating momentarily before recovering their path and retracing their ponderous steps. But I knew you were there, Lieutenant. There's always one, isn't there? One xenophobe, one troublemaker. No matter how nice the people are it's never entirely safe. Knowing you would take over if things turned bad . . . it was a safety-net. It was what I needed to just get on and do my job. Thank you.

He gave a short, breathy laugh that quivered as it left his mouth; but it was more of a sigh. And to think I was convinced you wouldn't need security on a mission like this, he joked. Pointless, I said. Send somebody with better diplomatic skills. But no, they had to insist. We don't know enough about the political climate down there, they said. There might be trouble. His fingers trailed up to the curve between shoulder and throat . . . and there they brushed against something soft and damp and heavy, snagging there like a fly in a web.

he said, and his hands left her back to brush an errant strand from her face. 'H' is for hair.

You're good, she chuckled. Your turn.

Unhesitatingly, he murmured: 'L'. I spy something beginning with

Hoshi's hushed voice cut back to him, muttering unclear words. she offered, hopefully.

We can't see the lake from here. Not unless we're playing I Spy with my telescopic eye, he said flatly.



He shook his head. Hoshi humoured a small sigh of her own. I give in, she whispered. What do you see?

Malcolm slid his right hand from her now feverishly cold body, indulging his fancy to let the fingertips strum across her ribs, and gently, very gently, he rested his thumb against her lips.

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In his cell, the counter reached 00:47:00. Malcolm, with the phantom of her kiss still on his lips, hauled himself upright, and approached the console before he could change his mind.

Part 5 on its way . . .