A/N: Here's the next installment, hope you guys enjoy it. I want to thank you for the reviews, with a special shout out to RoaringMice. Your perceptions of Lizzie's message were exactly what I was hoping to convey, and I'm delighted you picked up on it. I have freakishly high levels of self doubt when it comes to my writing, so I'm glad that you all have found an interest in this piece. I have big plans for it, so please stay tuned!


"...gonna be okay?"

"...severe concussion...third degree burns..."

"What the hell..."

"Rostov said...overloaded plasma torch...no safety equipment..."

Bits of disjointed sentences penetrate the darkness, familiar tones but in a previously unknown context. Using the voices as an anchor, I fight through the blackness to reach them, but there seem to be unimaginable forces holding me back. There is no pain, but a heavy weight is smothering my body, making breathing difficult and moving nigh on impossible. I feel the cold kiss of a hypospray against my neck, and then the darkness in my mind recedes as quickly as it enveloped me. But the physical blackness remains.

"...Tucker, can you hear me?"

I open my mouth to reply in the affirmative, but there are no words, only a long, steady croak from reluctant vocal chords. I try to sit up, to raise an arm and remove whatever it is covering my eyes, but a pair of hands land on my shoulders, and gently push me back down.

"Commander, drink some of this liquid. It will help your throat."

The cool metal rim of some kind of mug touches my lips, and I open my mouth instinctly. The liquid tastes bitter, and I make a face as it invades my senses. But the doctor is right; words come easily when I say, "what the hell happened?"

A voice speaks up on my right side, one that I immediately recognize as Captain Archer's. "There was an accident in Engineering, Trip. The plasma torch you were using overloaded. You're in sickbay."

He didn't need to tell me that last bit; I've spent so many nights in this place since the mission started that the smell of antiseptics mixed with Phlox's managerie could reach me in a coma. But a plasma torch overloading? That part surprises me. Those torches have safety features to prevent something like that from happening.

"Well, is everything allright? Was anyone hurt? How're the engines?"

I've known the Captain long enough to hear the smile on his lips. "Engines are fine. T'Pol's been working with your team, making sure there's no damage besides the obvious. And you were the only injury. Rostov took minor burns to both his hands from when he tried to help you, but he's already healed and gone."

Now that doesn't sound right. I know from personal experience that even with healing aided by one of Phlox's creatures, burns are tricky things to get rid of. But the inconsistency of that statement suddenly takes a backseat to the fact that Phlox still hasn't taken these damn bandages off my eyes. I try to reach up again, but a hand snags my wrist and stills my movement with little difficulty. "Look, doc, would you take whatever it is covering my goddam eyes off! I can't stand not seein' you guys when I'm talkin' to you."

I hear my accent thickening just slightly, as it always does for some reason whenever heightened emotions come into play. But I don't have time to think about that anymore as the whole of sickbay has gone incredibly quiet. The silence is uncomfortable, awkward. It seems as though even Phlox's animals have halted in their movements and vocalizations. I realize that I don't like the implications of that.

"Trip, listen to me." It's the Captain again, and he's speaking close to me, right next to my ear, in fact. I can feel his breath hot on my cheek; he smells like coffee. "You suffered a severe concussion when the torch went off. Your head bounced off the deck plating pretty hard. Phlox says a side effect of that kind of injury is..." He takes a pause, laying a hand on my shoulder and squeezing gently, and suddenly I'm terrified, possibly more scared than I've been on this ship yet.

"You are quite lucky, Commander." Phlox picks up the conversation, though if it's because the Captain is unwilling to continue, or unable to, I'm not sure. "The damage is not nearly as extensive as it could have been. Should have been. You suffered third degree burns to your hands, two broken ribs on your right side, and multiple minor contusions and lacerations to the rest of your body." He also stops, and as an effect of my fear, I become angry rather quickly.

"There's obviously something you're not telling me. Would you just spit it the hell out?"

He makes a breathy kind of noise I recognize as a sigh, then says, "as the Captain was telling you, you have also suffered a fairly severe concussion. A side effect of your particular injury is blindness."

The room falls silent once more, and it's as if everyone is holding their breath while waiting for my reaction. I reach up to my face again, and this time there is nothing to stop me; that in itself says something. There's a small piece of gauze taped to my right cheek; if I press hard enough, I can feel a tenderness that would indicate a pretty deep cut. My fingertips travel further up my face, and I startle myself by poking myself right in the eye. There's nothing covering them, they're not taped shut. My baby blues are wide open, but my world remains as dark as if the ship's power had been cut.

My hand falls back to my side, and someone threads their fingers through mine. Captain Archer speaks up again. "Phlox assures me it's only temporary, Trip. Your sight should be back inside a week, right Doctor?"

Phlox picks up the cue, and starts speaking again, something about a sort of brain damage, and needing time to heal. I don't really absorb anything of it, because my mind is still trying to wrap around the concept that I'm blind. It doesn't really matter that it's supposed to be temporary. Phlox is not the be all end all of the universe; he had been known to be wrong in the past, despite his variety of high tech medical equipment. What if he's wrong this time? What if this condition isn't temporary? What if-

All thought processes come screaming to a halt as something occurs to me. I'm not wearing my uniform anymore, though that's hardly a surprise.

I reach out awkwardly, manage to grab onto the Captain's arm. "Where's my uniform? I need it."

When no answer is forthcoming, and I can detect no movement or sound beyond my own ragged breathing, I tighten my grip. It's not easy; the muscles are stiff and the skin feels too tight, but I don't care. "Cap'n, I need that uniform. The one that I was wearing when the damn torch went off. Please, it's really important." My voice is rising in hysteria, but I don't spare the thought it would take to relax myself.

There's another short pause, and I can just picture the two of them exchanging glances over my bed. Finally Captain Archer pries my fingers off his arm, and I hear him move away. There's a rustling sound to my left, Phlox's side, but when he speaks up again he's on the right.

"Commander, you need to remain calm. Overexciting yourself at this point will do nothing but harm."

"I'm not overexciting myself. I just want my fucking uniform. Is that so damn difficult?" I start to sit up again, and this time make it most of the way before a weight settles across my chest, gently pushing my back down.

"Commander, please. You need to calm down."

"Goddammit! I want my uniform! Get me my fucking uniform!" I'm being unreasonable, and I know it. But they don't understand how goddam frustrating it is to be told suh a huge piece of information, then be denied something as simple as an article of clothing. I fight against the weight on my chest; if I can just get out of this bed, then maybe I can find what I so desperately need.

A hand settles on my forehead, presses down, and I feel something cold touch my neck on Phlox's side. Tears of frustration overload my sightless eyes and spill down my cheeks. "No. Don't do this. I need that uniform, Jon, please. Do this for me..." I trail off because the medication is having a fast effect, and my whispered words soon dwindle into nothing as consciousness fades.


I begin to panic before fully regaining awareness; there is something truly horrifying about waking to find that even though your eyes are wide open, your world remains as dark as if it were still curtained by your eyelids. My other senses dull, as slowly the only thing that matters to me is the fact that I can't see. It takes a full minute of near hyperventilating before I finally register to the fact that someone is speaking to me. Low, accented tones right behind my ear, anchoring me to reality despite the fact that I couldn't see it. It's another several minutes before I can catch my breath well enough to speak.

"Malcolm." It comes out as more of a sigh than I would've liked, but considering the situation it's more than enough to get his attention.

He halts his soothing speech immediately, and I hear the creak of his chair as he presumably settles back into it.

"Trip, are you alright?"

I take a minute before answering. It's such a damn loaded question. Physically, I feel fine. But as long as I have to check with my fingers to make sure my damn eyes are open...

"I'm...I'm okay. I just...panicked a little bit, y'know." My voice sounds infinitely better than it did earlier, but it still comes out as more of a croak than is strictly considered healthy.

"That's completely understandable." A slightly awkward silence falls over us; in the background I can hear someone, probably Phlox, or Ensign Cutler, milling around in the back room. I frown to myself, thinking back to my last waking thoughts.

"They knocked me out." When Malcolm doesn't respond, I continue without provocation. "They knocked me out, because I wanted my uniform."

"The doctor says your heartrate was rising too quickly. He was afraid it would be detrimental to your health. He had to do it, Trip."

I scoff, mostly because I know he's right and don't like having the right to complain taken from me. I know Phlox only ever does things for the good of his patients, but that doesn't really give me any piece of mind. Especially when apparently, there's nothing he can do for me.

"Why did you want your uniform so badly? What's so important about it?"

His tone sounds overly casual, and I wonder briefly if he's up to something before saying, "Nothing. I just want it, all right?"

There's no answer for a long few minutes, then he picks up my hand where it's resting ontop of the sheets. He turns it over, and presses a small, smooth rectangle, feels like plastic, into my palm. I frown as he lets go, fingering the plastic carefully. My jaw slowly drops open as I realize just what it is I'm holding in my hand. "I don't get it. How did you know?"

He's obviously pleased with himself; I can hear the smile on his lips when he says, "I talked to some people. Hoshi told me about the datachip she passed on, and Rostov said you weren't yourself when you went over to help him. I put two and two together, and luckily, came up with four."

I fear the resulting grin that spreads across my face will crack my head in half. My hand tightens reflexively on the datachip; thanks to Malcolm, I haven't lost the last link to my dead baby sister. I open my mouth to thank him, even though I'm not quite sure the words exist. In the large scheme of things, we haven't really been friends that long, but what he just did for me went above and beyond the call of duty.

He saves me from my own reprehensible inability to put my thoughts to words, and simply pats my arm gently. "It's alright, Trip. Don't worry about it."

I feel rather than hear him stand, and he wipes something soft across my cheeks. I realize then that I've been crying; silent tears of relief rolling down my cheeks. I want to apologize for this display of emotion that generally makes Malcolm nothing but uncomfortable, but my throat is kinda closed up, and I fear trying to speak now will only make things worse. He's surprised me in these last few minutes, showing a thoughtfullness I wasn't aware he possessed.

I hear footsteps approaching the bed, then a bright, disgustingly jovial voice says, "Well, now, Commander. How are you feeling this morning?"

I sniff noisily, and shrug, as difficult as it is when laying down. "I'm still blind. Why don't you figure it out?"

A hand lands on my shoulder, probably a warning from Malcolm not to provoke the being in charge of my being released. Lord knows he's enough of an expert on the subject. But I don't care. The pain medication is starting to wear off, and I'm a lot more worried about this damn blindness than I've given them reason to believe. At the moment, the doctor is the only logical choice to be an outlet for my anger and frustration. Anyways, I still haven't forgiven him for sedating me.

I feel his warm touch on my face; he peels back the bandage on my cheek and pokes at the wound beneath. "As I told you earlier, Commander, your condition is not likely to disappear over night. The human brain is a complex organism, and it needs time to heal."

The bandage is smoothed back down, and he makes a pleased noise from the back of his throat. "Do you feel any pain?"

I ponder the question for a second, then decide that to lie to the good doctor, or to reply with anything but politeness would probably only hurt me in the long run. With the least painful of my hands, I motion to the right side of the torso, where the dull ache is beginning to develop into something fiercer. He gently lifts my hands out of the way, then folds down the sheets to take a better look. I hear a sharp intake of breath from Malcolm, and that worries me more than he'll ever know. The man has incredible pain thresholds; my side must look pretty horrible to surprise him.

Phlox prods gently at the pain centre, and I flinch away, hissing in response. "It appears as though the contusions resulting from your broken ribs might be a little more severe than I anticipated. I'll give you a little something for the pain."

There's the general sounds of his preparing, then the cold head of a hypospray is pressed against my neck. The medication takes effect immediately, and any semblance of pain I had known suddenly melts away. I breath a noisy sigh of relief, and someone chuckles, pats my shoulder softly.

Beyond my bed, I can hear what I'm pretty sure is the doors to sickbay slide open, then a pair of footsteps nearing my little bubble cautiously.

"Ah, good afternoon, Captain Archer." Phlox speaks in an overly friendly voice; I'm almost positive his greeting was more for my sake than anything else. I hear the Captain stop at the the end of the bed, and he taps the sole of my foot with his finger.

"How are you feeling, Trip?"

Malcolm breaks in then, probably afraid I'll snap at the Captain and get myself written up. "He just got another shot of pain medication."

Captain Archer makes a sound deep in his throat, then I feel the bed dip gently as I assume he sits next to my feet. He lays a hand on my right shin, and I find that unspeakably odd. We've been friends for nearly ten years, but he's never really been physically expressive. An occasional slap on the back, or hand shake for a job well done, but that was it. I think he's touched me more in the past two hours than he has in the last ten years. I file that away to wonder about later.

"How're my engines, Cap'n?" I can sense he's about to say something, and being quite sure I won't like it, I try to head him off at the pass. He sighes, squeezes my calf. "They're fine, Trip. Lieutenant Hess is taking good care of them."

I nodd. I'm sure that she is; if I had to pick my replacement I'm pretty sure it would be Hess. She thinks enough like me that I feel comfortable leaving her in charge.

A delicate silence falls over our little group, and I know without having to look that I'm the centre of attention. I've always liked to have all eyes on me, but not like this. Never like this. It's patronizing, and uncomfortable, and I hate it.

"So doc, when can I get out of here?"

"You sure that's a good idea, Trip?"

I'm sure my sharp look would be infinitely more effective if I knew where to direct it. I try to reason with myself. The Captain can't possibly understand, he's just trying to look out for me. But he can't possibly know that even after a mere couple of hours away from the engine room, I'm already feeling out of the loop. Add that to the fact that I don't when I'll be able to return, and I'm feeling pretty antsy. "I'm sure that I don't want to spend the whole week in this bed. There's no reason for me to stick around, is there, doc?"

He hesitates for a moment, then says, "I would like to keep you under observation for another twelve hours. Your concussion was fairly severe. After that, you're free to go. Although, for obvious reasons, you will not be allowed to return to duty."

I snort, but somehow manage to keep my sarcastic retort to myself.

The Captain asks to speak with Malcolm; after a brief pat on the arm, they're both gone, leaving me alone with the good doctor. At least, I think. I obviously can't see him, and he hasn't made his presence known otherwise.

I settle back against my pillow, and sigh softly. The datachip feels heavy in my bandaged hand; I flip it through my fingers rythmically. The gravity of the situation hasn't failed to reach me. I know that permanent blindness would be a career ender for even the best of engineers; what good is a sightless Commander in Starfleet? I don't know how long they would give me to heal before asking me to resign my commission, but I wasn't about to jinx my luck and ask, either.

"Commander, that is quite an astonishing skill you have."

The sudden voice next to my bed startles me, and I jump. I'd forgotten Phlox was probably there, he'd been so quiet these past couple of minutes. The datachip stills in my hand. "Yeah, it's a neat little trick my first instructor in Starfleet taught me. Great for manual dexterity."

He's quiet for a long minute, possibly waiting for me to start again. I don't indulge him. After a time, I feel his hand on my shoulder.

"If you'll excuse me, Commander, there are a number of things requiring my attention. If you need anything, I'll be within earshot."

I nodd absently, and hear him move off soon after. Sickbay falls into silence. It occurs to me then that I've never felt so alone.

...tbc...


A/N: So he's blind. Did that surprise anyone? Or am Ias transparent as I think I am? I have rather ambitious ideas for this plot, and as pathetic as it sounds, I already have the beginning for a sequel written. I just love the idea of a self-sufficient guy like Trip being made so helpless.

I've also thought that a story written entirely from a blind man's perspective might be a little dull, so I've been playing with the idea of writing a few chapters from other characters points of view. Let me know what you guys think.