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Trip sat by the window in the darkness, his feet propped on the sill as he watched Malcolm sleep. Malcolm hadn't spoken since he'd asked about the shower, and had fallen asleep on the bed almost as soon as he'd left the bathroom. Now he was sleeping solidly, wrapped in blankets, his soft breath the only sound.

Trip moved his gaze to the window, watching the smoke drift over the low buildings across the street, the plume a soft light against an otherwise clear, dark sky. He watched as shifting currents buffeted the column.

He hadn't been able to sleep; he was too wound up, but that wasn't unusual lately. Since the attacks, he'd fallen back into the poor sleep patterns he'd had after Lizzie had died. He expected that they'd take that same course: unable to sleep at all at first, then later on, sleeping all the time. He didn't look forward to the dreams, once those started.

Malcolm groaned behind him, and he heard the rustling of blankets. Glancing over, he saw that Malcolm had rolled away, pulling the blankets up over his head.

Restless, he scrawled Malcolm a quick note, then went out walking. The streets in the area, so crowded that first night, were still empty of all traffic except emergency vehicles. He wandered down to the far end of the street, near the southern border of the neighbourhood, and joined the small crowd that had gathered there; mostly Caputians, although he saw a sprinkling of Denobulans, and a few faces from peoples with which he wasn't familiar.

This end of the street had been barricaded by a combination of blue barriers and military vehicles, marked and unmarked. The authorities near the vehicles looked drained, subdued, and the crowd was mostly quiet. Every once in a while, someone would look up at the pillars of smoke in the sky, then away again.

Glancing at others in the crowd, Trip wondered about their reasons for being here: maybe trying to cross, or waiting to meet friends coming from downtown, or just looking for companionship in their sorrow. He'd come here before, back when he was still looking for Malcolm. In fact, earlier this morning he'd actually asked if he could help in some way, volunteer, needing some time away from his search, needing to do something that made him feel useful, but had been told that they'd had enough workers.

Turning away, Trip returned to their building and saw Malcolm sitting on the stoop, looking a bit frayed, wearing civilian clothes that were far too big for his slim frame.

"I thought you were sleeping," Trip said as he approached.

Malcolm glanced at him, then shrugged.

"Where'd you get the clothes?"

Malcolm looked down at himself, as if noticing what he was wearing for first time. "I found them in a drawer."

"I think they're mine." Trip smiled slightly, then held out his hand. "Come on."

Malcolm took his hand, and Trip pulled him up. They walked down the middle of the street, moving away from the direction of the barricades.

There was a roar overhead and Trip flinched, stopping in his tracks as he looked up into the dark night sky, trying to see what had caused the sound.

Malcolm bumped Trip's shoulder with his own. Quietly, he said, "Military."

Trip turned his face from the sky. "How are you doing?" he asked, peering at his friend out of the corner of his eye.

Instead of answering, Malcolm said, "Did you sleep?"

Trip shook his head. "I haven't been able to sleep much these past couple days."

Malcolm looked at him, questioning.

"At first because you were missing. But tonight, I think it was because of the silence: no engines thrumming on the ship, no vehicles in the sky, on the street. I keep listening, waiting."

They passed several restaurants and shops that were closed. Finally seeing a bar that was open, they entered, nodding to the busy proprietor before taking a table near the back. The place was packed, every seat taken, but oddly quiet, people speaking in a low murmur.

"This reminds me of films I've seen on the Blitz," Malcolm said as his eyes roved restaurant, then out the windows to the streetscape, empty of vehicles.

Trip nodded. "Or 9/11"

The lone server stepped to their table, and Trip looked to Malcolm. "Food?"

Malcolm shook his head.

Trip nodded and turned to the server. "Whiskey, please," he said, knowing he'd get the Caputian equivalent.

They sat in silence while they waited, each of them lost in thought, watching the crowd around them. When the drink arrived, Trip poured them both servings from the carafe. He watched as Malcolm stared down at the rich, amber liquid, swirling it in his glass, then downing most of it in one quick gulp. Trip finished his own drink, then poured them each another, his cheeks already warm, tingling.

Malcolm took a large sip, then said, "I've heard that communications have been spotty."

Trip nodded. "Yeah, I haven't been able to contact Enterprise." He cocked his head to the side. "We talked about this earlier."

"We did?" Malcolm finished his second drink in as many minutes. "Sorry, I don't remember."

Trip finished the last of his glass, then divided the remainder of the carafe between them. "It's all right. You were pretty out of it."

They sat for the next several minutes, drinking quietly. Trip could feel the buzz of the alcohol in his cheeks, his head, and his vision swam slightly as he watched Malcolm finish the last of the whiskey. When he was done, Trip nodded to the proprietor and ordered a second bottle to take away. After it arrived and he paid, he turned to Malcolm, "Ready?"

Malcolm nodded and stood, stumbling a bit, steadying himself with a quick hand against the table. Trip stood as well, and they stepped out onto the street, through the people who were now gathered, drinking, smoking, and talking quietly, outside the door of the bar. In silence, they began walking.

Rounding the corner onto their street, they saw a stream of people coming towards them, each holding a candle, the small flames flickering in the breeze. As the crowd passed, Trip and Malcolm turned and walked behind them, following as the people flowed down a side street, flames illuminating the walls in a flickering light. They passed walls hung with flyers; signs of the missing, the dead; snapshots of families, together on holiday, smiling. One green face would be there, circled in red, and there would be a message scrawled below in flowing Caputian script. Trip didn't need to be able to read the language to have some idea of what it said: the person's name, last seen... please contact...

As they walked, the crowd began to thin, eventually leaving just Trip and Malcolm. They continued on, neither of them speaking.

Trip saw someone wander by on the near-deserted street, looking out of it.

From beside him, Malcolm said, "He's seeing the ghosts of the dead."

Trip nodded. He didn't doubt it.