The lift doors close on them. The silence feels heavy for a moment as each waits for the other to speak.
"Malcolm?" Hoshi says.
He feels his heart thump in his chest at the sound of his own name, and wishes, for a bare instant, that it would stop beating – concerned, despite all scientific evidence suggesting its impossibility, that her sharp linguist's ears might be able to hear his heartbeat. Of course, then he would be dead, which would be terribly inconvenient but much less embarrassing than this social awkwardness to which he seemed doomed for all his days.
"Yes?" How articulate he is today, how dashing, debonair … but somehow he keeps the scathing sarcasm of his inner self from making him look too uncomfortable. Or so he hopes.
"Do you think he's all right?" Hoshi squares her shoulders, her arms folded over her chest. The action somehow makes her appear more vulnerable.
"You mean Commander Tucker?"
Hoshi nods, without seeming to notice how idiotic the question sounds as it hangs briefly in the air. Of course she means Commander Tucker. It's awfully nice of her to pretend it's a reasonable question, though.
"I don't know," Malcolm says. "He's … not himself lately." Understatement of the century.
"It's taken a lot out of him," Hoshi says softly. "I mean … it's hit all of us, really, one way or another. Even T'pol. I saw her when she came back aboard from planet-leave and I thought she wanted to hit something."
Malcolm gives her a rueful look. "He wants revenge. I … can't say I blame him."
"Will it help, though?" Hoshi shakes her head. "I just …"
"He was hit very hard," Malcolm admits. "But … I don't know what to do." He wishes he could better explain, that he does all that he can think of but it'll never be enough, he's terrible with people. "I tried to talk to him about it, but he threw it in my face … I don't think he's ready yet."
Why is he telling this to her? She must have her own worries, her own problems … he shouldn't burden her with his. But her expression is sympathetic, with traces of something else that he can't quite identify, as she nods.
"I wish there was something I – or any of us – can say," Hoshi says, turning away from him to stare at the closed doors of the lift as it heads for the armoury. "Trip's been like a big brother to me out here. I hate what this is doing to him."
Malcolm gives her a sympathetic expression even as he suppresses deep inner triumph at "like a big brother to me". The ship's gossips, wrong yet again … if it weren't beneath him to join in, he'd gloat about it to Travis. Hoshi and Trip … what a laughable idea! Why has he ever given it any credence? How could he ever have lost any sleep over such a silly concept?
And what kind of person is he, secretly rejoicing about Hoshi's platonic emotion for his best friend when he ought to be worrying about his friend's inability to mourn for his sister properly?
Selfish. Disloyal. And hardly honourable, either.
"I hope he'll be all right," Malcolm says. "I worry about him, too."
Why shouldn't Trip have her, since Malcolm is so obviously unworthy of her affection?
Well, except for that she just told him that she thinks of Trip has her big brother …
And the lift's doors open.
"Thanks, Malcolm," Hoshi says. "You're a good friend."
Ha. Such a good friend, rejoicing in Trip's ill fortune. Not that Trip has shown any signs of being romantically interested in Hoshi either, come to think of it, but it's still the principle of the thing.
"So are you," Malcolm replies as he leaves the lift and heads down the corridor towards the armoury.
Time passes, as it is wont to do. As it turns out, Trip hasn't improved at all; he wants Malcolm to make absolutely certain the weapons are outfitted to their maximum destructive capacity. He wants to make certain that Malcolm understands that he plans to go through with this, that his thirst for revenge will not be sated until he's destroyed the aliens that have done this to him, done this to his sister, and their reasons be damned.
Malcolm is sympathetic, or at least, as sympathetic as he knows how to be … he does his duty, assures the chief engineer that everything is ship-shape and Bristol fashion, and leaves the armoury. He notifies the bridge that he will be taking a brief break from his duties in order to refresh himself, and receives word from Captain Archer that he's to take as long as he needs, so long as he's prepared to go back on-shift should anything interesting happen.
Malcolm allows himself a small smile at the Captain's turn of phrase. Should anything interesting happen. Right.
He heads for his quarters. He could use a shower, a nap, and some food: refueling the body is important to the pursuit of duty, after all.
There's a mail waiting light at the computer terminal in his quarters. It's text only. He instructs the computer to open it, and glances at the screen, wondering who would be sending him a text-only message in the middle of the day.
The words flash green across the flat screen:
LIEUTENANT – IF YOU'RE OFF-SHIFT, WANT TO COME TO THE MESS-HALL AND GET A SANDWICH OR SOMETHING? WE COULD PROBABLY BOTH USE THE COMPANY. – H.S.
Malcolm, in the midst of stripping off his uniform, pauses and stares at the screen, his heart thumping in his chest as he ponders what it might mean that she's specifically requested his company. It probably doesn't mean anything more than it sounds like it does. They're both tired – the whole crew, really – and she probably thinks he needs to blow off some steam.
Maybe she's trying to draw him out of his shell again. People always seem to do want to do that, although for the most part, except when ordered otherwise, Hoshi has been one to respect his need for privacy. Or possibly she wants to continue their discussion regarding their mutual concerns for the well-being of Commander Tucker. But whatever it is, because it's from Hoshi, it's far more important than any nap or shower could ever be.
He finishes getting dressed again and heads out of his quarters and toward the mess-hall. That he loves her, there is no question … and that she could never look on him as anything more than a friend and colleague is also a certainty in his mind. And yet there are all these moments – these insane, heart-stopping moments of impossibility possibility, wonders always quenched or bottled or otherwise scolded away. He lives in suspense between one moment of wild hope to the next … and he loves her all the more for giving them to him, these shadows, these cruel, tantalizing glimpses of what it might be like should the universe take leave of its senses and she were to love him in return.
She is a rose among dandelions; not a delicate flower amidst the tougher, more adaptable plants. Roses are beautiful, but they're tough. Malcolm doesn't know much about gardening, but he has vague memories of his mother insisting that the roses be pruned, or else their robust health might choke out all other vegetation in her garden … and if there's one thing he knows for certain about roses, it's that their slender, delicate stems have wicked thorns.
Hoshi has secret thorns, ones she herself doesn't even know about, and they have pricked his heart. He bleeds from their touch, even as he longs for it to continue. He knows that a relationship between them must be impossible – to approach her as a suitor would be to jeopardize far, far too much for it even to be a possibility within the realm of consideration – but he can watch his thorned beauty from afar, bask in her strength of will and her compassion, and let the wild hopes rule over his dreams.
And he can certainly meet her in the mess-hall, for a sandwich or something, when he's off-shift. Because friends and colleagues can do that, and it doesn't have to mean anything at all.
"Malcolm?" Hoshi says.
He feels his heart thump in his chest at the sound of his own name, and wishes, for a bare instant, that it would stop beating – concerned, despite all scientific evidence suggesting its impossibility, that her sharp linguist's ears might be able to hear his heartbeat. Of course, then he would be dead, which would be terribly inconvenient but much less embarrassing than this social awkwardness to which he seemed doomed for all his days.
"Yes?" How articulate he is today, how dashing, debonair … but somehow he keeps the scathing sarcasm of his inner self from making him look too uncomfortable. Or so he hopes.
"Do you think he's all right?" Hoshi squares her shoulders, her arms folded over her chest. The action somehow makes her appear more vulnerable.
"You mean Commander Tucker?"
Hoshi nods, without seeming to notice how idiotic the question sounds as it hangs briefly in the air. Of course she means Commander Tucker. It's awfully nice of her to pretend it's a reasonable question, though.
"I don't know," Malcolm says. "He's … not himself lately." Understatement of the century.
"It's taken a lot out of him," Hoshi says softly. "I mean … it's hit all of us, really, one way or another. Even T'pol. I saw her when she came back aboard from planet-leave and I thought she wanted to hit something."
Malcolm gives her a rueful look. "He wants revenge. I … can't say I blame him."
"Will it help, though?" Hoshi shakes her head. "I just …"
"He was hit very hard," Malcolm admits. "But … I don't know what to do." He wishes he could better explain, that he does all that he can think of but it'll never be enough, he's terrible with people. "I tried to talk to him about it, but he threw it in my face … I don't think he's ready yet."
Why is he telling this to her? She must have her own worries, her own problems … he shouldn't burden her with his. But her expression is sympathetic, with traces of something else that he can't quite identify, as she nods.
"I wish there was something I – or any of us – can say," Hoshi says, turning away from him to stare at the closed doors of the lift as it heads for the armoury. "Trip's been like a big brother to me out here. I hate what this is doing to him."
Malcolm gives her a sympathetic expression even as he suppresses deep inner triumph at "like a big brother to me". The ship's gossips, wrong yet again … if it weren't beneath him to join in, he'd gloat about it to Travis. Hoshi and Trip … what a laughable idea! Why has he ever given it any credence? How could he ever have lost any sleep over such a silly concept?
And what kind of person is he, secretly rejoicing about Hoshi's platonic emotion for his best friend when he ought to be worrying about his friend's inability to mourn for his sister properly?
Selfish. Disloyal. And hardly honourable, either.
"I hope he'll be all right," Malcolm says. "I worry about him, too."
Why shouldn't Trip have her, since Malcolm is so obviously unworthy of her affection?
Well, except for that she just told him that she thinks of Trip has her big brother …
And the lift's doors open.
"Thanks, Malcolm," Hoshi says. "You're a good friend."
Ha. Such a good friend, rejoicing in Trip's ill fortune. Not that Trip has shown any signs of being romantically interested in Hoshi either, come to think of it, but it's still the principle of the thing.
"So are you," Malcolm replies as he leaves the lift and heads down the corridor towards the armoury.
Time passes, as it is wont to do. As it turns out, Trip hasn't improved at all; he wants Malcolm to make absolutely certain the weapons are outfitted to their maximum destructive capacity. He wants to make certain that Malcolm understands that he plans to go through with this, that his thirst for revenge will not be sated until he's destroyed the aliens that have done this to him, done this to his sister, and their reasons be damned.
Malcolm is sympathetic, or at least, as sympathetic as he knows how to be … he does his duty, assures the chief engineer that everything is ship-shape and Bristol fashion, and leaves the armoury. He notifies the bridge that he will be taking a brief break from his duties in order to refresh himself, and receives word from Captain Archer that he's to take as long as he needs, so long as he's prepared to go back on-shift should anything interesting happen.
Malcolm allows himself a small smile at the Captain's turn of phrase. Should anything interesting happen. Right.
He heads for his quarters. He could use a shower, a nap, and some food: refueling the body is important to the pursuit of duty, after all.
There's a mail waiting light at the computer terminal in his quarters. It's text only. He instructs the computer to open it, and glances at the screen, wondering who would be sending him a text-only message in the middle of the day.
The words flash green across the flat screen:
LIEUTENANT – IF YOU'RE OFF-SHIFT, WANT TO COME TO THE MESS-HALL AND GET A SANDWICH OR SOMETHING? WE COULD PROBABLY BOTH USE THE COMPANY. – H.S.
Malcolm, in the midst of stripping off his uniform, pauses and stares at the screen, his heart thumping in his chest as he ponders what it might mean that she's specifically requested his company. It probably doesn't mean anything more than it sounds like it does. They're both tired – the whole crew, really – and she probably thinks he needs to blow off some steam.
Maybe she's trying to draw him out of his shell again. People always seem to do want to do that, although for the most part, except when ordered otherwise, Hoshi has been one to respect his need for privacy. Or possibly she wants to continue their discussion regarding their mutual concerns for the well-being of Commander Tucker. But whatever it is, because it's from Hoshi, it's far more important than any nap or shower could ever be.
He finishes getting dressed again and heads out of his quarters and toward the mess-hall. That he loves her, there is no question … and that she could never look on him as anything more than a friend and colleague is also a certainty in his mind. And yet there are all these moments – these insane, heart-stopping moments of impossibility possibility, wonders always quenched or bottled or otherwise scolded away. He lives in suspense between one moment of wild hope to the next … and he loves her all the more for giving them to him, these shadows, these cruel, tantalizing glimpses of what it might be like should the universe take leave of its senses and she were to love him in return.
She is a rose among dandelions; not a delicate flower amidst the tougher, more adaptable plants. Roses are beautiful, but they're tough. Malcolm doesn't know much about gardening, but he has vague memories of his mother insisting that the roses be pruned, or else their robust health might choke out all other vegetation in her garden … and if there's one thing he knows for certain about roses, it's that their slender, delicate stems have wicked thorns.
Hoshi has secret thorns, ones she herself doesn't even know about, and they have pricked his heart. He bleeds from their touch, even as he longs for it to continue. He knows that a relationship between them must be impossible – to approach her as a suitor would be to jeopardize far, far too much for it even to be a possibility within the realm of consideration – but he can watch his thorned beauty from afar, bask in her strength of will and her compassion, and let the wild hopes rule over his dreams.
And he can certainly meet her in the mess-hall, for a sandwich or something, when he's off-shift. Because friends and colleagues can do that, and it doesn't have to mean anything at all.
