Title: Alone In Darkness
Authors: Sita/T'eyla
Rating: PG-13
AN: Thanks to The Libran Iniquity (apropos maths... how did your exams go? ;) ), PJ in NH (a huge R/S fan's typing this, but all the same we probably will have to disappoint you... sorry! Hope you'll keep reading anyway ;) ), Tobie Holloway ("finally making some progress" - how right you are ;) ), Rinne (thank you! And we'll keep updating as long as you keep reviewing... no, just kidding ;) ), Dacker Spaniel (no R/S fan? ...alright, there's got to be a few of them, too ;) - and don't worry, they'll be having their talk soon... not in this chapter, though ;) ), Drakcir (many questions... hopefully some answers in this chapter), Gabi2305 (ja, also heute hat Sita die AN auf T'eyla abgeschoben - "Das machst du heut, ich hab die ganzen letzten gemacht"... sniff. Naja, Blödsinn verzapfen können wir beide glaube ich gleich gut ;) ), bunsdarien (more more more... and more more more... ;) ), KaliedescopeCat (what are the criteria for a real cliffie? Hmm... go ask Libra ;) ), Aeryn Lavanthia (AN's got a 177 words already -swallows-), stage manager (poor little Malli-boy, what did he do to you? Little cuddly brit, you can't simply go and hate him like that! My oh my, brits are sooo cute... okay, sorry. I've been in Russia, and so I've been Malcolm-deprived for 10 days - agh ;) ), Exploded Pen (is he? is he?! Wait and see...), and Phaser Lady (and here you get more - not so soon, I'm afraid... sorry about the delay :) ) for reviewing.
Note: In this chapter, we used a line from Harbinger (you'll recognize it when you come across it), but not in the same context in which it appeared in the episode. For us, Harbinger hasn't happened, we only used that one line.
------------------
Chapter 13
The messhall was empty. Even Chef had retired for the night, and the darkened galley told Trip that it had to be past midnight already. Usually the ship's cook would stay on duty till 10 pm at least, being as fond of his domain as Tucker was of his beloved Engineering department. Now, however, the room was deserted, and Trip was grateful for that.
It was now three days ago that Jon had come to his quarters, intending to talk to him and succeeding in crushing Trip's fragile state of mental equilibrium completely by telling him about Malcolm.
There, Trip told himself, stabbing at the piece of pie standing before him with an almost violent force. You're doing it again. Blaming others for things you are responsible for. Jon tried to break it as gently as he could. It's your fault and only yours that you're sitting here, unable to sleep or even eat that damned pie.
He stared down at the pie that resembled something like a molehill by now, a small heap of mashed crust and sugar-covered pecan nuts. Suddenly and without forewarning Trip remembered a casual remark he'd made over a year ago, sitting at this very table in messhall.
"... can you believe it, he ate the same meal every day for over a year!"
His female audience had giggled appreciatively at this oh-so-witty remark and the tone of mock despair he'd used, but right now Trip couldn't see anything funny about his statement.
It seemed so characteristic of him - and not in a good way. Speaking whatever stupid thought popped up in his mind without thinking about whom he might hurt with that remark, making weak jokes at the expense of others - it was just what you'd expect from a superficious, egoistic idiot. And once again, of course, Malcolm had been the butt of his joke. Trip always told himself the Lieutenant's stiff by-the-book attitude was simply too tempting for him not to poke fun at Reed about it, but somewhere deeper in his mind he knew that was not quite the truth. The Armoury Officer's earnest and determined way of doing things, of living his life, sometimes made Trip feel insecure, unsure of himself and what people called his "easy-going manner". At the beginning of their mission this feeling of insecurity had triggered a certain distrust in him where Malcolm was concerned, and he'd been sure he would never be able to understand this weird, reserved man who refused to "fraternize" with the crew and never spoke of his personal interests beside work. Who, according to Archer, didn't even have a hobby. The incident with the shuttlepod had changed that. Trip had seen that Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, who never showed any interest in socializing or even getting to know his colleagues, cared very deeply. And they had become friends.
Still, their friendship was based on a bantering, jocular rivalry, friendly, but always creating a certain air of competition. And Trip realized that it had been mostly him enforcing that rivalry by doing exactly what he called "poking fun at Malcolm." He had never really been able to take the Lieutenant's way of doing things without comment, had always felt the need to justify his own actions by making fun of Malcolm's point of view. Malcolm had reacted, of course, by retorting in that dry, caustic way of his, but he'd never really felt the need to initiate one of their famous "repartees". And he would have never talked to a third person about Trip in that careless, slightly condescending manner.
But it wasn't enough, Trip thought, crushing the last remaining bits of pie crust in an almost savage manner. It wasn't enough that you had to make those stupid remarks. That you could never leave well alone and simply accept him the way he is. No, you had to make it complete and turn your back on him when he needed your friendship the most. You had to fall for a stupid trap some sadistic weirdos set up and make him think that you never really trusted him anyway. You just had to, didn't you, asshole?
For a moment Trip felt like picking up the plate, ruined pie and all, and throwing it against the wall as hard as he could. He'd never deserved that friendship, and he didn't deserve people coming and talking to him, fussing over his moods and ailments while he himself couldn't even muster the courage to go and apologize to Malcolm.
Feeling an almost physical disgust, Trip let go of the fork he'd been stabbing the pie with and watched it fall onto the table with a soft clatter. He knew he wouldn't be able to finish that dish, even though it was pecan pie and he hadn't had one for at least two months. Several days ago when he'd still been confined to his quarters, he'd already experienced a certain lack of appetite, but then he'd blamed it on the solitary environment of his cabin, thinking that it would get better once he was allowed to eat in messhall again. In the meantime, however, Trip had come to the conclusion that being out of his quarters wasn't really changing anything.
"Good evening, Commander."
Trip looked up. He hadn't heard the door open, and was surprised to see T'Pol standing at the resequencer, raising one eyebrow at him. He cleared his throat.
"Evenin', T'Pol. Didn't hear you comin'."
"That is obvious." T'Pol turned back to the dispenser unit. "Camomile tea. Hot."
Trip watched her take the cup out of the slot, and actually found himself feeling kind of relieved that someone had come. It wasn't like he was very keen on making small talk at the moment, but he realized that all this brooding wasn't getting him anywhere.
"May I join you?" she said, and he motioned her to sit.
"Sure."
Placing her cup in front of her on the table, she sat down gracefully and gave him a brief look before turning her eyes to the window. In the meantime Trip had grown quite skilled in reading the subdued Vulcan body language, and he could see that T'Pol was feeling a little uncomfortable. Her discomfort didn't show by something as blunt as shifting on the chair or turning her cup in her hands, but there was a certain tension about her posture that told him there was something on her mind.
No surprises there; this was a rather awkward situation, after all. The last time they had spoken, other than the occasional brief informal greeting in the corridors, his head had been resting in her lap, and she'd been stroking his hair, telling him to close his eyes and go to sleep.
"I assume Dr. Phlox has informed you that getting sufficient rest is crucial in your current condition, Commander?"
Trip looked up and actually felt a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. T'Pol's way of asking "Why're you up so late". She was still staring at him with an expression of calm inquiry on her face, eyebrow arching a fraction steeper than usual. He cleared his throat.
"I know," he said. "It's jus' that... I'm not really tired, you know."
He expected her to say that it was illogical not to spend one's night resting when one's body was in need of sleep, but she didn't.
"You are troubled," she stated. Trip looked back down at the remains of his pie. Vulcan straightforwardness could be very refreshing at times, but it did need getting used to.
"What makes you think so," he muttered, and he didn't have to look at her to know that her eyebrow had climbed even higher.
"It is obvious," she said and he couldn't help but utter a dry chuckle at her statement.
"Guess it is." Picking up his fork he once again poked the molehill that was left of his pie, then pushed away the plate. As he raised his eyes he saw that T'Pol was regarding his dish with her nose slightly wrinkled in disgust. Despite himself he felt a teasing grin spread on his face. "Want some?"
She looked up, and to his surprise he saw an answering glint in her eyes. "Certainly not." Folding her hand, she placed them in front of her on the table. Trip watched the shadow of amusement vanish from her features, and again had the impression that she was feeling self-conscious in that aloof Vulcan way of hers.
"Commander," she said, "we need to talk."
He immediately shook his head, looking back down at his hands that were still holding the fork. "T'Pol," he said hesitantly, not wanting to hurt her feelings, "I really appreciate what you're tryin' to do, but-"
"We need to talk about the mind meld."
An awkward pause followed these words. Carefully, Trip put the fork back down on the table, involuntarily matching T'Pol's gesture as he interlaced his fingers. In a way, he had been waiting for this topic to come up, but at the same time had been dreading the moment when he would have to voice his feelings on that strange, terrifying but still somehow mesmerizing experience he'd had. They'd had.
The silence between them stretched, and when T'Pol didn't speak up again, he felt obliged to say something.
"Well," he said hesitantly, "I guess I have to thank you. For what you did. When... when I wasn't feelin' well, I mean." He cringed inwardly at his choice of words, realizing that he must be sounding like a complete idiot. "I... I know it musta been... difficult for you... you know, with me bein' all-"
"It is alright, Commander," she interrupted, and to his mild chagrin he noticed that some of the amusement had returned to her eyes. "There is no need to explain. And there is no need to thank me." He opened his mouth again, but she held up a hand. "Actually, I am of the opinion that I owe you an apology. On Vulcan, there are very strict ethics concerning the joining of thoughts, and I compromised these principles when I initiated the meld without your explicit permission. I ask your forgiveness."
Trip stared at her, completely thrown off his tracks for a moment. T'Pol was apologizing... to him?
"Well," he said after a moment when he'd recovered his voice, "I don't know anythin' about Vulcan ethics, but... there's nothin' you have to apologize for. Hell, a week ago I was sittin' in that damn decon chamber, refusin' to eat and threatenin' to kill anyone who tried to come near me."
Anyone else would have tried to interrupt him now, to tell him it hadn't been his fault and he mustn't blame himself. T'Pol however simply listened, watching him with what he would have called a cool stare only a year ago. Now he knew better, and it was a relief, being able to speak what was on his mind without having to take human sensitiveness into consideration.
"You... you really saved me. It sounds stupid, but you did. It... it was so awful, thinkin' everybody had turned against me, and that I was completely alone... " He paused, struggling to keep his voice steady as he continued. He didn't want to make her feel uncomfortable by displaying the emotions that were raging inside him all too clearly. "I don't know what made me think so. It was just... at some point back in that cell, after that whole business with the... the hologram had happened, I somehow lost it. Started to talk to myself, to... to that voice..."
He trailed off. Up until now, he had never brought himself to acknowledge that there had indeed been a voice in his head, whispering hateful accusations and threatening him not to trust anybody. It was not a sign of mental stability, talking to voices only oneself could hear, and besides the mere memory of that ugly, hissing sound forming evil words inside his head sent shivers down his spine. But there was no fooling T'Pol as far as his mental state was concerned - she had experienced first-hand how screwed-up he'd been. And maybe still was. And she knew about the voice. She had made it go away, after all.
"I... sometimes I think it was them. That they did something to my head, made me hear things they said... and... and that I'll never be able to know if they're really gone or..."
He couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence. Staring down at his folded hands, he noticed absentmindedly that the knuckles had turned white from clenching his fingers so hard. But he'd done it. He'd managed to voice his deepest fear which kept him awake at night, and which would never allow him any real peace, no matter how firmly he kept telling himself that everything was alright. There was a small careful movement on the other side of the table, and suddenly another hand came into his range of vision, gently settling on his clenched-up fists.
"Commander. Charles."
Trip slowly raised his eyes, and saw T'Pol looking at him in her calm, unobtrusive way. She didn't pull her hand away, tightening her grip ever so slightly as she continued.
"It is understandable for you to experience such doubts, but I can assure you, they are not based on any actual facts. That "voice", as you call it, was not planted in your head by anyone. It was part of your hallucinations, a manifestation of your paranoia."
Her words sounded clinical, almost unfeeling, but her tone of voice told Trip that she was trying to make herself as clear as possible, help him see the facts so he could finally discard those fears which had been tormenting him ever since he'd returned to the real world.
"You must not expect your upset feelings and confusion to vanish over night. It is perfectly normal for you to experience these emotions, and the way you keep them under control is admirable."
Her features were still perfectly Vulcan, but Trip had the impression that her rigid expression softened a little when she spoke these words. Hesitantly, he allowed a small smile to appear in the corner of his mouth.
"Why, T'Pol, I'd never thought you'd compliment me on my emotional control one of these days."
Her left eyebrow twitched slightly, and for a fleeting second Trip believed he saw the corners of her mouth curving upwards.
"You may have a point, Commander. It is quite hard to believe."
For a moment their eyes locked, and Trip found it astonishing just how clearly Vulcans could express their amusement without moving one facial muscle. This Vulcan, at least. The laughter dancing in her eyes, daring him to say more, combined with the fact that her hand was still resting on his brought something to his mind.
"T'Pol," he said, trying to sound off-hand but not quite succeeding. "mind if I ask you somethin'?"
T'Pol's eyebrow twitched again, and she carefully pulled her hand back, resting it on the table next to his. "I assume that depends on the nature of the question."
The trace of amusement still lingering in her voice encouraged him to go on. "During that meld..."
Her eyebrow climbed higher. "Yes?"
"In the end, there was somethin' you didn't want me to see, but I kept pressin' you about it... guess I was still feelin' a little... wary..."
"Indeed. The reason I dropped my shields was not to agitate you when you had just recovered." T'Pol's voice sounded dry, but not in an unfriendly way. He nodded.
"Yeah, I remember. What I meant to ask you..." He looked up, and noticed her watching him intently. There was no sign of discomfort in her eyes, though, only curiousity, and an openness he had seldom seen before.
"You meant to ask me whether I actually experience these feelings?" T'Pol asked quietly, and he looked back down at the table, suddenly feeling embarrassed.
"Yeah, guess that was what I wanted to ask. I'm sorry if-"
"There is no need to apologize. I believe you are entitled to ask this question." Again, the faintest trace of dry humor in her voice. "And yes, I do experience these emotions. Even though..." She paused, and if he hadn't known better, he would have said she did it deliberately. "Even though they are completely illogical."
A warm, happy feeling suddenly spread in the pit of his stomach, and he couldn't remember when he'd felt like that last time. Had they been in one of the movies they watched on Friday night, he would have bent forward now, taking her hands in his and bringing his face close to hers. Kiss. Freeze. Credits.
But this was real life, and in real life Trip only smiled, saying the most stupid thing one could say in a situation like that. "Oh."
T'Pol raised her eyebrow. "Have I answered your question, Commander?"
Trip nodded. She had, although he would never have expected quite such an honest answer. And there was no point in saying what they both knew. Being no telepath, he had not been able to hide anything from her during the meld, and he suspected she had known long before taking a look into his mind. All the same, despite the feeling of happiness that was still lingering in his stomach, he knew that now was not the time for these things. He had been released from his quarters only two days ago, and was still under close medical observation. His nights he spent mostly in messhall, not eating his pie and hating himself for what he'd done to one of the best friends he'd ever had. No, it certainly wasn't the best time for scenes from a Friday night movie.
Again, he felt the warm touch of T'Pol's hand on his fingers.
"Charles." The unique way she said his name almost made him smile. It sounded so serious, so distinguished compared to his nickname. "I think it would be the most... helpful if we continued this conversation at another time. You have a lot to deal with at the moment, and I believe it will take a lot of time. And it is important for you to take that time." Again, their eyes met, and they shared a moment of mute understanding before T'Pol carefully pulled her hand back. "In fact, I ask you to take that time."
Trip nodded, grateful that she had said what he would never have been able to put into words. "I will, T'Pol. Promise."
T'Pol folded her hands in front of her, and sat up a little straighter. "Actually, there is another thing I would like to ask you to do."
Surprised, he raised his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"
T'Pol looked him straight in the eyes as she answered. "I want you to go and talk to Lieutenant Reed about what has happened back on V'nera."
Trip sat motionless, feeling the tenseness return. T'Pol, of course, knew why he was sitting here instead of getting some much-needed sleep, and she knew why he couldn't bring himself to eat. She knew he couldn't forgive himself for what he had done.
"T'Pol..." he began, but she interrupted.
"I know you believe you cannot do that, that he will not talk to you. I know it will be difficult. Nevertheless... I ask you to consider it. Will you promise me to do so?"
A moment's silence followed, then Trip nodded. It was an almost involuntary gesture, but he meant it nonetheless. "I promise."
"Good." T'Pol held his gaze for another moment, then she gathered her untouched cup of tea from the table and got up. "I will return to my quarters, and I suggest you do the same, Commander. You need rest."
In the meantime Trip had gotten used to the abrupt way Vulcans ended conversations, and so he didn't feel offended when she simply walked off to get rid of her cup. At the door, however, she turned around one more time, and once again it looked as if her features softened for a brief moment.
"Good night, Commander."
He smiled. "Good night, T'Pol. And... thank you."
She raised an eyebrow. "There is no need for thanks. Sleep well."
The door swished shut behind her, and Trip stared at the closed bulkhead for another few moments before turning his gaze to the window. The passing stars had something calming about them, and Trip realized that the urge he'd felt before, to destroy something, throw something against the wall, had vanished completely from his mind. For the first time since he'd woken up in the decon chamber he felt completely at peace, and thinking of the promise he'd made to T'Pol didn't even make him feel tense. He just hoped he would be able to find the strength and act on it before it was too late.
-###-
It was around 1000 hours, and Jonathan Archer was sitting at the desk in his ready room, staring at the screen in front of him and trying to keep his thoughts with the task that he had assigned himself this morning. He was finally going to write that report for Command, something that he'd been procrastinating for almost two weeks. Of course, he'd sent a brief outline of events immediately after they'd retrieved Trip and Malcolm, but the actual after-mission report was yet to be handed in. And written. Usually, the officers concerned would compose it, but for obvious reasons that wouldn't be the case this time. Trip and Malcolm were both only just recovering, and least of all things they needed Starfleet bureaucracy to force them to meticulously document what they'd gone through. Besides, Archer could tell Command just as well what'd happened. He'd watched the protocols, after all.
All that didn't make writing the report easier, though, or changed the reluctant feelings he experienced when describing what he'd seen in those protocols in the matter-of-fact, clipped language of Starfleet reports. Doing that felt wrong, somehow. He knew that was irrational, but all the same he'd already deleted three different beginnings. He briefly wondered if he should ask T'Pol to write it, then dismissed the thought. Putting off something he felt uncomfortable with on his First Officer wasn't exactly fair, even though he knew that said First Officer wouldn't complain. This report was his job, and he would do it.
His thoughts kept wandering, though. Gazing at the small, green-blinking light on the frame of his screen, Jon let his mind return to the matter of his two off-duty senior officers. About an hour ago, he'd stopped by Trip's quarters for a short visit to find his friend sitting at his desk, going over the same engineering schematics he'd been occupying himself with these last few days. Archer didn't know for sure, but he assumed that these schematics were some kind of self-prescribed therapy for Trip. The viability of the improvements to be achieved by making these modifications ranged from almost non-existent to pretty low, but all the same Trip spent almost all his time at his computer terminal, brooding over tables and stats. Not that Jon disapproved of it; he knew that there was nothing that would distract Trip from his worries more efficiently than engineering problems. And he did seem to be coping alright, considering what had happened. Archer knew that it would be a long time until things would come even close to being like they'd used to be, if they ever did, but he also knew that Trip was getting better. If slowly. At least he was talking to people, interacting with his environment - in a limited amount, though, but he was.
That, however, didn't seem the case with Malcolm. Jon hadn't talked to him in a while, two days at least, but when he'd last seen him, he hadn't noticed any change from the time when Reed had been released to his quarters. When Malcolm had talked to him right after waking up in sickbay, Archer had been surprised, he hadn't been expecting it. But after that, Malcolm had clammed up, not letting anyone in on how he was feeling. A couple of times still, Jon had tried to make him talk, but it seemed to him as if Reed had withdrawn behind massive defense walls that allowed neither anyone reaching him nor him getting access to the outer world. Hoshi, who'd taken the greater part of the job of looking after Malcolm upon herself, had a similar impression, plus that he was refusing to take any food or leave his quarters. Jon knew about the incident with the loosened drip needle, and Phlox had told him that there'd been other occasions when similar things had happened. The Captain didn't know what exactly to think of the matter, he was certainly no psychologist, but he was aware that something like this couldn't mean any good, and the way Phlox had seemed worried and uneasy when he'd told him about it left Archer feeling even more unsettled. He knew that something needed to be done about this, but, to quote Phlox, "they mustn't rush things". Malcolm probably only needed a little more time.
That's not quite right, spoke up a part of his mind, and you know it.
Archer would've liked to think that was pessimism talking, but at the same time realized that it probably was more something like realism. Of course he knew that it wasn't time what Malcolm needed the most urgently, but someone to talk to. Someone who told him he was going to be fine, even if that didn't seem possible at the moment. Jon had tried to do that, but he wasn't getting through to Reed. He hadn't really been expecting to, either; Malcolm had never really opened up to anyone except Trip, and certainly wouldn't talk to his captain about his state of mind.
Well, but sending Trip to talk to him probably won't do any good, Archer thought. Neither was Trip ready to provide any comfort to other people, being busy enough getting his own life back into order, nor did Jon know if Malcolm would even only look at Trip, let alone talk to him.
Sighing, Archer turned his gaze back to the blinking cursor on the otherwise blank screen. He needed to finish this report, not indulge in brooding that wasn't going to get anyone anywhere. He was just about to re-write the few sentences he'd deleted earlier when the door buzzer went off.
"Come," Jon said, noticing in slight dismay that he actually felt a little relieved at the distraction. The door slid aside, and to Archer's startled surprise revealed Malcolm standing in the doorway. Covering up his reaction, Jon turned around in his chair and got up.
"Malcolm. Come on in, take a seat." He gestured at the armchair opposite his desk, and Reed lowered himself onto the seat.
"Thank you, Captain."
There was a few seconds' silence, and Archer sat back down, folding his hands on the desktop and giving his Armoury Officer a questioning look. Malcolm wasn't looking much better than he had two days ago; his cheeks were hollow, and dark shadows displayed beneath his eyes. He was wearing his uniform, but Archer noticed with slight confusion that the Lieutenant's insignia on his right shoulder were missing. He frowned a little, waiting for Reed to say something. When he didn't, Archer opened his mouth.
"How are you feeling, Malcolm?" he asked. Reed, who'd been studying his hands, raised his eyes.
"I'm fine, Captain." He shifted a little on the seat. "I hope I'm not disturbing? I'd... I need to speak with you."
At that, Archer slightly raised his eyebrows. When Malcolm didn't continue, he nodded encouragingly. "Go ahead."
Again, Malcolm averted his eyes, his fingers fiddling with a loose thread on the armrest. After a short pause, he began to speak.
"I... had a lot time to think these last few days," he said hesitantly. "About... what happened and... all of this. About what I'm going to do."
"What do you mean?" Archer asked, not sure if he really wanted to know what Malcolm was aiming at. This introduction didn't make the matter seem like something he was going to like. Malcolm didn't look up, only folded his hands in his lap.
"I wasn't sure how... how I was supposed to deal with what happened. To be honest, I still don't really know. But... I think I'm not going to be able to do anything as long as I'm on Enterprise."
"What exactly are you saying, Malcolm?" Archer asked but feared that he already knew what Reed was going to tell him next. Finally, Malcolm raised his eyes, and his gaze carried an almost apologetic look as he spoke.
"I want to resign, Captain."
Archer took a deep breath as his suspicion was being confirmed. He met Malcolm's eyes that looked sad, regretful, but also determined, and licked his lips before he began to speak.
"Malcolm..." He paused, searching for words. "Are you sure there's-"
"Please, Captain." Malcolm again wasn't looking at him. "Don't try to talk me out of it. I thought it through, several times. I don't see any other possibilities."
"Maybe you don't right now, Malcolm. "Archer got up and walked around his desk, leaning against the edge of the tabletop. "Look... it's only six days ago that we got you back from V'nera, and you've only been out of sickbay for three days. Don't you think it's a little early to make a momentous decision like this?"
"It's not a matter of how many days it's been, Captain," Malcolm said, and Archer noted that his voice had a certain bitter irony to it. "What matters... what decides if I'm going to stay or not is whether I'll be able to fulfill my duties in the near future or not. And I have reason to believe that I won't."
Archer paused, thinking. He couldn't say that this took him completely by surprise; he believed that somewhere, subconsciously, he'd known all along that something like this would be coming. Which didn't mean that he liked or even accepted it. After a few moments, he spoke up again. "I can see why you're feeling this way at the moment, Malcolm. But... give it a little time. I'm sure that right now, it doesn't look as if things are going to be like they used to, but I can only repeat... give it time. It's been only six days. Don't rush your actions."
"I'm not." Malcolm had looked up again, and now his gaze was closed up, cold. It seemed as if a wall had come down behind his eyes, shutters for the windows to his soul. "I thought this through, believe me. My decision's made. And as far as I'm familiar with Starfleet regulations, you'll have to accept my resignation."
At that, Archer blinked. He hadn't expected Reed to attack him that way. But maybe it wasn't even an attack, come to think of it. The shutters had closed completely, but all the same Archer believed he could see that Malcolm was a little afraid. Maybe that he wouldn't accept the resignation, he didn't know. But Reed's statement hadn't been an attack, more a defense measure. He cleared his throat. "Yes," he said. "If you insist, I'll have to accept your resignation. But... won't you at least think about it one more time?"
"Captain." Now Malcolm seemed almost a little exasperated. "I have thought about it. And I do insist."
Archer regarded him, not saying anything for quite a while, waiting, hoping that the silence would make Malcolm uncomfortable so he would try to explain, maybe initiating a longer talk about his reasons for this course of action. But obviously Malcolm had attended the same rhetoric classes at the Academy as Archer had, or maybe he was a better conversation strategist by nature. Either way, Reed answered the silence with a hard, unwavering stare. Seconds dragged by, then Archer finally relented. "Very well, Malcolm, if you insist. I'll notify Command and the Vulcans. I guess they'll be sending a ship as soon as they can spare one. But I want you to consider this one more time as long as you still can, alright?"
Malcolm was silent for a moment, then lowered his eyes, a humourless smile playing about his lips. "All right, I will. But I very much doubt that I'll change my mind." Without giving his captain a chance to react, Reed got up again and nodded politely. "Thank you, Captain."
Archer only looked at him for a moment, feelings of reluctance, regret and even slight anger creating a minor turmoil within him. But he kept them where they were, not displaying any emotions on his face. "You're welcome," he said.
Malcolm still didn't move, and Archer realized that he was waiting to be dismissed. Reed hadn't acted as one of his officers, had initiated this conversation rather in a personal than in an official manner; he wasn't even standing at attention, so Archer had forgotten all about these formalities. "Dismissed," he said now, and Reed turned to the door, pushed the panel and left the room without saying another word.
The bulkhead slid shut, and Jon stared at it for quite a while, thinking. He wondered if he should have been more persistent. Malcolm was right, Starfleet regulations said that he had to accept a resignation from any officer if it didn't create severe complications, and even in that case it could only be postponed. That wasn't the case here, though; it wouldn't be easy to replace Malcolm, but not impossible, either. But Archer didn't want him to leave, and not only because he'd be losing the fleet's best security chief and weapons specialist, not only because it would demoralize the crew in a big way, especially the other senior officers. No, he also doubted that it would be good for Malcolm if he left. He couldn't quite point out the reason for it, but he had a feeling that leaving would be the worst thing Malcolm could do at the moment.
Maybe I need to talk to him once again, he thought, but at the same time realized that it wouldn't be any use. It had proved more than one time over the last few days that Malcolm wasn't inclined to talk to him.
Someone else, Archer thought, resting his elbows on the desk and examining his hands. Someone he'll open up to.
He knew who that would be, but he wasn't sure if it was a good idea to initialize a confrontation between those two so soon. But later, there wouldn't be any time. Sighing, Archer turned off his terminal and got up, leaving his ready room and taking the turbolift to B-Deck.
TBC...
Please let us know what you think!