Disclaimer: I don't own Enterprise or its characters, otherwise there'd be no need for fundraising efforts on the part of the fans. Unless they really wanted to, since I also make no money off this.

Author's note: Yes, I'm finally back. Sorry it took so long, but my life has been insane lately. Work/school… bomb threats (WAT storyline for me? Hmm… maybe when my heart stops pounding and I can actually deal with it), yes… it's been a little interesting.

Hope the wait is worth it for those of you faithful enough to stick around… thank you so much, and many thanks to my wonderful betas – Kate98 (703296) silvershadowfire (569176) and gaianarchy (gaianarchy). Without you… things would be much worse.

Chapter 4: Consequence

Trip grumbled when he realised that he was essentially confined to the first floor. Charlie ignored him and began setting up a space in the den where Trip could sleep.

"I'll help out," Malcolm offered, keeping his voice low even as Charlie disappeared upstairs for blankets. "With your chores and such."

"Malcolm, when are you going to get it into your head that you're a guest? You're not supposed to work." Trip flopped down on the couch and shook his head.

"An indefinite guest," Malcolm countered. "And as such I should take on my share of the household duties." After all, that was just as polite as serving a short-term guest, wasn't it?

Trip glared, but said nothing. Clearly, he still hated losing arguments, but at least he knew to quit when he was beaten.

Charlie came back with the blankets and some other things from Trip's room, including Trip's computer. He stood and waited at the foot of the couch until Trip sighed and stood up.

"I'm still supposed to be woozy, so could you hurry this up?" Trip did sound a little out of sorts. There was none of his usual sarcasm in his tone; instead, he seemed almost whiny.

He's worried, Malcolm realised. Trip must have already figured out some of the ramifications of his injury. He wouldn't be able to take care of things as much now, even with Malcolm's help. And he doesn't trust either of his parents.

Charlie put together a makeshift bed and Trip crashed back down again, the springs protesting against the abuse. Malcolm could see Charlie biting back a comment. The destruction of the couch had nothing to do with the broken leg – Trip's method of sitting down usually involved simply letting his knees collapse and falling on the nearest piece of furniture. But Charlie looked like he was trying not to get on Trip's case about even the usual issues – the cost of a new couch far less than the cost of a son.

"I don't want you going anywhere," Charlie said instead. "I'm surprised they even let you come home from the hospital, but I do not want you wearing yourself out. The world is not going to fall apart without you."

"Because you do such a wonderful job of keeping it together." Trip didn't even look up at this father as he spoke. "Seeing as you're here so much and all."

"Get used to seeing me." Charlie sat down on the coffee table, as though emphasising his permanence. "Because I am going to be here quite a bit. After all, I clearly can't trust you to look after my eldest son."

"And you can do such a better job."

Charlie smiled, but it wasn't a happy expression. "Watch me. In case you managed to forget, I am still your father."

"Don't worry. I even managed to remember that she's still my mother." Trip pointed upwards. Obviously, he was still suffering effects from either the injury or the medication, because he seemed to have forgotten he was keeping secrets from Malcolm.

But it doesn't matter, because I already know. Malcolm wondered what Charlie would do now. From the sound of things, he wasn't going to be working either job. And a lot of Trip's worries stemmed from the financial problems the family seemed to be having. That was the only way to explain why he wouldn't eat, and why he wore clothes too small for him, even while he made sure his siblings were well cared for.

"It's a problem, I know." Charlie said, softly. They both seemed to have forgotten that Malcolm was there.

But that's okay, because otherwise they wouldn't do anything. They'd still try to pretend that everything was fine, even when anybody could see that it wasn't.

"Really?" Trip raised his eyebrows in disbelief, and his tone was bitter. "Then why is it still a problem?"

Charlie looked like he wanted to cry. "You don't know enough about what you're talking about, Trip. I know you think you know everything…"

"I know a hell of a lot more than you!" Trip's volume increased. "I know she doesn't give a crap about anything anymore! Where the fuck was she, Dad? Huh? I coulda died, and she didn't give a crap!"

Malcolm winced. He felt his stomach tighten as though he was the one being yelled at, not Charlie. He felt helpless.

Then Trip started to sob, his entire body shaking. Charlie looked lost, like he didn't know what do.

At least Jonathan did. Malcolm wished he could call Jonathan and let him know what had happened. But he was probably already in enough trouble simply for sending the picture. If Trip finds out about that… Trip had spent a lot of time trying to impress Jonathan. More reminders of Trip's darker side probably weren't that impressive.

Then again, it probably wasn't a good thing to ignore. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe because everybody tried to pretend that everything was fine, that was how it got so bad. But Jonathan hadn't tried to pretend. Maybe that was why Trip respected Jonathan so much, even if he didn't always show it.

"Your Mom does care, Trip and she does love you. She's just…" Charlie looked even more uncomfortable, fidgeting in his seat.

"Bullshit! She doesn't even know I'm alive. I coulda done this on the living room floor and I'd be lucky if she stepped over me instead of on me." Trip moved like he wanted to pull his knees up to his chest, but the cast wouldn't let him. He fell back completely instead, and rolled over to bury his face in the cushions.

"Trip…" Charlie gave up, getting up and leaving the room entirely. Malcolm shifted from foot to foot, wondering what he should do next. Should he stay with Trip, or follow Charlie and try to explain things? If he did follow Charlie, how much would Trip hate him for that?

Or there's the other option. Yes, it might blow their cover completely, but right now that risk meant little against the possibility that Trip would do something stupid. Making up his mind, Malcolm left the room.

"Hey. Hey!" Jon felt somebody shaking him but decided to ignore it. Between class naps were sacred, surely everybody knew that. And it couldn't be time to get up, because he'd just gotten to sleep. "There's a call for you, man. Some kid. Says it's urgent."

Kid? Jon bolted up, throwing the blankets aside. That would be urgent. The monster could get melodramatic, but he never cried wolf. No, he waits until it's past the point of emergency, and then just says 'oops.' He slid behind the monitor before his eyes even focussed, and when they did… "Malcolm?" Now that wasn't the 'kid' he'd expected. "What's up?"

"Um… Trip called me… he's pretty upset. I thought I'd better tell you, maybe you can help." Malcolm fidgeted, and there was something off in what he said. Just what, though, Jon couldn't say.

"Did he say why?" Never mind, it had to be serious. If Trip was asking anyone for help, it was serious. Don't tell me it's suicide, again. Please don't tell me that. There'd been no indication in Trip's past letters that he'd slid back to that level of depression, but Trip was damn good at hiding things like that, too.

"He broke his leg… and there are complications."

Jon sighed. Aren't there always? In Trip's case they could be anything from the minor (I broke my leg, but my parents still make me go to school) to the extreme (I broke my leg, and I'm now in jail, and – oh, yeah – the house burned down and the school blew up, and do you know the names of any good lawyers?) and Jon wasn't going to place bets where in the continuum this case landed. "Okay, thanks. I'll call him, and see what's up." He noted the relief on Malcolm's face when he didn't ask for more details. Brat probably told you not to tell anyone, didn't he? Which meant it had to be closer to the lawyer end, or Malcolm wouldn't have broken the confidence. He opened his mouth to say more, but Malcolm signed off quickly. That wasn't much of a surprise, either. He hadn't heard from Malcolm in a while – apparently Stuart Reed didn't want his son corresponding with someone that much older. Trip's parents welcomed it, but they were just grateful to find someone that Trip would actually correspond with who wasn't into criminal activity.

He punched in Trip's number and waited. Just when he was about to give up, Trip answered. "Hello?"

"You look like crap." Might as well just jump right in. And it was true: Trip's eyes were red from crying, and it was bad enough that the rest of his face had puffed up, too. "I'd ask how you were doing…"

"Yeah, well…" Trip shrugged. "You?"

Jon shrugged back. "You know. Same shit, different day."

"Yeah, I know," Trip smiled a little – not a happy smile, but it was something – and scratched the side of his face. Even over the link, Jon could see the salt-burns on Trip's cheeks.

"I heard you had an accident." It seemed like an okay place to start.

Trip's face darkened. "How'd you hear that?"

"I haff my sources," Jon tried for a Transylvanian accent from a movie and failed miserably.

"Yeah, well… I broke my leg. No big deal."

"You mean someone's managed to get you slowed down?"

Trip gave him the finger.

"I'll tell you what: you can pass that message on to my girlfriend and let her deliver it."

"You mean you've actually found someone that desperate?" At least the kid's sarcasm was still intact.

"I don't think desperate is the word." Jon yawned theatrically. "I've been having trouble getting enough sleep."

"You mean I should talk to the hand?" No, Trip's sarcasm certainly hadn't been damaged.

"So what happened?" No sense digging himself in further – Trip's capacity for comebacks was sometimes unlimited.

Trip made a face. "I got sacked."

"That's funny, I don't usually find that breaks legs." Hey, the monster started this and this level of banter was often the only thing that would break down those battlements of his.

"Football, dickhead. Not like that preppy, wimpy little thing you play… fooling around with your balls in a pool." Trip gave as good as he got. "As for the other, you're obviously not as experienced as you like to pretend you are."

Jon shook his fingers like he'd been burned. "Ouch. Has anyone ever told you that you're too well informed for a thirteen-year-old?"

"I'm too well informed for a forty-year-old." Trip shot back, but it didn't seem like banter anymore. There was something else under the words, something darker and heavier.

Welcome back to the minefield. Trip often expressed his feelings rather clearly. Getting him to talk about them was another matter. One misstep… "Well, maybe if you stopped hanging out with virtual criminals…"

"Right. I'll stick with the real ones from now on." Trip's current feelings were broadcast right from his face. What the hell are you up to? the expression said.

"Speaking of… nice picture. My roomie wants to turn it into wallpaper, but I told him 'over my dead body.' No way am I putting something you made up on the wall… it's probably designed to spontaneously combust or open a portal to hell, or something like that."

"Actually, it's the hidden code for Universal Field Theory. Deus-ex machina and all that shit."

"Latin," Jon grinned, only semi-impressed. "Let me guess, Malcolm came up with that one."

An odd look flashed over Trip's face, almost one of fear. Then it vanished. "Yeah. He's sure as hell got you beat for brains."

"Amen to that." Jon refused to take truth as an insult. Malcolm is one smart kid. The difference between Malcolm and Trip was that Malcolm's intelligence was the classical academic type while Trip was more 'mad genius' than anything. "Seriously, this girl taking religion saw it and wanted to call in an exorcist." Actually, her major was psych, and she suggested that the artist needed 'serious therapy,' but Jon wasn't going to tell Trip that. It would only close down the lines of communication he was struggling to keep open. What's really up, kiddo? No way even a hard hit should have broken the leg of a healthy thirteen year old – not that badly. So, I'm guessing that you're not healthy.

"So, what do you really want?" Trip crossed his arms and glared at the screen.

So much for subtlety. "What do you mean?"

"Give me a break, Jonny-boy. You didn't call me up just because I busted my leg. You think there's something wrong with my head."

"Jonny-boy? There is something wrong with your head if you think you can get away with calling me that. It's only been a couple of months, kiddo. Nobody gets better that fast… not even you."

Trip's expression darkened and he pulled in on himself. "It's nothing. It's not your problem anymore."

"The hell it isn't. Now if you're having trouble, talk to me."

"You can't do anything. And… and it's nothing I can't handle. You worry about your own stuff – aren't you coming up on mid-terms?"

"You might be able to get away with playing parent to your brother and sister, but don't try it with me." It definitely wasn't something Trip could handle, whatever it was. That much was clear in the way he kept deflecting Jon away and refusing to answer. "And I think there's a Chinese proverb or something, about how if you save someone's life you become responsible for them for the rest of it."

"I absolve you." Trip made the sign of the cross, even though Jon knew the kid wasn't Catholic. "You are no longer at fault for anything I do."

Trust the monster to see it in that light. "I'm sorry, but I don't remember you being ordained as a priest. And anyway… shouldn't that be my choice?"

"It's my life," Trip countered. "And I say I don't want you screwing around with it."

"Yeah, you'd rather it was someone like your uncle – putting you in the ground." It was a nasty shot, but Jon was losing patience.

"It's my cousin in the funeral business, dickhead. And at least by then I'll be dead."

Jon gritted his teeth. "Did it ever occur to you that that is precisely what everyone is afraid of?"

"You shouldn't end your sentence in a preposition." If Trip was falling back on grammar, he was definitely hiding something.

"Oh, and you should criticise my English."

"No, but Mal could. He's been teaching me."

"I'm surprised his Dad's letting him talk to you." Again, that flicker of fear crossed Trip's face and Jon couldn't help wondering why. Nothing had seemed wrong with Malcolm. "He does have his parents' permission, right?"

"Yeah, sure." The answer came so quick and pat that Jon knew it was a lie.

"Tucker…"

"I'm fine. He's fine."

"You are not fine. I can see that. Now tell me what it is." Dancing around the topic wasn't working, maybe the direct approach would.

"Drugs. They keep insisting I take them so I don't feel my leg so much," Trip shot back.

Jon just stared at the screen and waited.

"Fine. It was a bad break, okay? Everybody freaked out, and now I'm stuck on this stupid couch for the next six weeks or more."

"You know what?" Jon threw his hands in the air. "Don't tell me. You're right, I've got better things to worry about than some bratty kid who clearly doesn't give a crap."

"Wow, you are a fast learner." Any more sarcasm in Trip's voice and the sentence would implode. "No wonder you made it into Stanford."

Jon said nothing, just shook his head and signed off. Sighing, he punched in another number and waited.

"Hello?" Charlie looked as tired and worn out as his son had.

"Is everything okay over there? I just had a bit of an odd conversation with Trip… he broke his leg?"

Charlie sighed. "If it was just a break… is that what he told you?"

Jon nodded.

Charlie filled in the details, telling him about the surgery and how close Trip had come to dying. "He still won't face it. He's lucky to be alive and acting like that's something to be mad about."

Jon smiled wryly. "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

Charlie snorted. "You want him for a while?" Then his face darkened. "Maybe it would be better for him if he just wasn't here. As much as I hate to say it…"

Uh oh. That had been the Tuckers' excuse to send Trip to camp, too: a need to think of their son just being a kid. "Hey," Jon soothed. "He's probably still in shock. Give him some time to adjust. He'll be back to his cranky, impossible self before you know it."

"I hope so," Charlie sighed. "Otherwise…"

"You should talk to my dad. He didn't think he'd survive my teenage years, either." Jon made a face. "At least you're not taking away his driver's license yet."

"He's not getting one – not while he's living here, at least." Charlie shuddered. "The idea of Trip with a car…"

"Knowing Trip, he'd spend more time modifying it than driving it." And probably not with the systems that got Jon in so much trouble either, though he decided not to scare Charlie with that fact. And even if Trip did decide to create a racer, it would probably be a lot safer than what Jon cobbled together. That was one thing about Trip… if he did something, he made sure he did it right.

And I would have been fine had that ditch decided not to jump out in front of me. The fact that he'd forgotten a fundamental rule about oil and water didn't help either. Given the state of the car, yanking the license was merely symbolic. On the other hand, it got me started on the camp thing. Summer without a car seemed interminable, so when the chance to be a counsellor somewhere out of the country came up, he hadn't hesitated. Three years later and the rest is history… thankfully.

"That's what scares me," Charlie said darkly. "I don't want to wake up one morning to discover that I have a newly detached garage. The thought of Trip and a welder is not exactly comforting."

Jon smiled, but only in half-agreement. What Trip might come up with when given a welder would be scary, but the kid was more cautious with tools than most people tended to be. He's like a chef with his knives. Don't touch if you value your fingers. The biggest danger of giving Trip an entire workshop would be the possibility of never seeing him again. I mean, I thought Dad was bad, but Trip's like Dad on a mission from God. "So, other than the leg, how's he been doing?"

Charlie seemed to be weighing how much to tell Jon. Despite the Tucker parents' relief that Trip had chosen a semi-respectable role model, Jon still wasn't on the inside, yet. And Jon knew well enough that some secrets never made it outside of family. "His normal self. Stubborn as hell, in other words."

So, no help here, either. Whether Charlie just didn't know, or wouldn't tell, Jon couldn't guess. It could be either: Trip wasn't always forthcoming with his problems, even to his parents. Especially to his parents, sometimes. Jon wondered if they still were in the dark as to the extent of Trip's depression. That would hardly be something to ask, though. Are you aware that your son was suicidal? Not after keeping it secret this long.

"That's good to hear." Actually, it wasn't, and it didn't explain Malcolm's concern or Trip's fear every time Malcolm's name came up. What's going on, kiddo? He spent a few more minutes with polite small talk, then said his goodbyes and signed off. He sat staring at the screen and thinking. The injury Charlie had described really didn't fit with a thirteen-year-old kid, even one as adept at getting into trouble as Trip. Jon furrowed his brow. He needed more information on the subject, but luckily, he was in the right place to get something like that.

He got up and quickly checked in the mirror to make sure his hair wasn't sticking up all over the place.

"Where're you going now?" Gilbert blinked, trying to figure out the odd behaviour.

Jon smirked. "To find myself a med student." There were a couple out there he'd had his eye on and something like this gave him a way in. Especially since he had a free weekend right now. No sense losing the opportunity.

"Man… free clinic might be safer to your reputation," Gilbert grinned.

Jon gave him the finger and walked out, laughing.

What the fuck are you trying to pull? Trip stared at the screen as Jon signed off. This wasn't just a 'how are you' call… and that reference to Malcolm? That had to be it: Malcolm must have called Jon first. I told you he's got good intentions and bad judgement, Mom. Trip could only pray that Malcolm used a public terminal and not one of the ones in the house. Jon was cool – to a point. He'd never support a major fraud like the one Trip and Malcolm were pulling; he still had that geeky fixation with obeying the rules. Not to mention he's a nosy mother hen. He should become a social worker, because he seemed to have this compulsion to fix everybody's problems. You can't. I'm not telling you, because there's nothing anybody can do about any of it.

Trip poked angrily at the sandwich his father had brought in for him, then gave the dish a shove and sent it flying off the coffee table. The last thing he wanted was food. They couldn't make him eat it. He wasn't going to.

Charlie came running in at the sound of the crash and swore. "Trip…" He bent down and started picking up pieces of sandwich and broken plate. "You have to…"

"Make me." Let them try… he'd just throw it up again.

Charlie stopped what he was doing. "You know… I think your friend Jon is right. I don't think I'm going to have to worry about pulling your driver's licence, because I don't think you're going to be alive to get it." Tears shook his voice and he threw what he'd picked up on the floor before fleeing the room.

Shit. Trip's own tears returned and he fell back into the couch. Dad was right, he didn't deserve…

He pushed himself onto his feet, ignoring the stab of pain that lashed through his leg. He limped and stumbled his way towards the utility room and over to the high shelf that held the cleaning solutions safely out of James' and Elizabeth's reach. But not out of mine. He stood for a moment, debating which one would work quickest, which one he could actually get down.

"Trip?"

He jerked, startled. Elizabeth pulled on his sleeve, trying to get his attention. "Why is Daddy crying?"

Ohmigod. Bad enough that he'd messed up Dad, but the thought of Elizabeth being the one to find him after he'd… "He's just upset, sweetie. It was a bad day today." His hands started to shake and he found it hard to breathe. How could he have forgotten them? How could he have… He'd nearly… Air came in the form of quick shallow breaths as the room started to spin. Elizabeth screamed, the kind of high pitched alarm that only she could manage. He heard running footsteps, felt someone grab his shoulders, then nothing.

(t)

He woke to find himself back in the hospital, alone. He knew what was coming next… Dad would get him back on those drugs and turn him into a zombie again. Just like the last time. When Elizabeth had been sick, and he'd worried, and Dad had the doctors put him on… No. He got up and moved as quickly as he could to the door, only to find it locked. No. He glanced around, seeing the fine mesh that covered the windows of the room, designed to prevent breakage. Psych ward. Dad had finally done it, had him locked up and he'd never get out. He screamed and pounded against the door, knowing that it wouldn't do any good.

"Let me out of here!" He couldn't stay here. Mom was the one that belonged in a place like this. Mom was the one that was crazy-sick, not him. He needed to get out of here. James and Lizzie needed him. They weren't safe there alone. He had to save them. "Let me out of here, please!"

Charlie stood and watched his son twitch and moan his way through a sweat filled nightmare. He didn't want to do this, it felt like cutting out his own heart, but he didn't have a choice. I have to get him out of here. Fiona was right; he couldn't handle his son. Things were too far out of control. He couldn't… he'd never imagined that things had gone that far. Not his son, his bright, brilliant boy. Not the child that had a ready smile that instantly made you smile back and the enthusiasm to make you believe that anything was possible. Not the little fighter who defied all the doctor's predictions and made it through those first few days, then weeks and then months until they could bring him home – born three months premature, and with a hole in his heart to boot.

And so smart… so, so smart. Trip had never just stacked blocks – from the beginning he'd been absorbed in making complicated structures, using other objects – books, sticks, rocks – when the blocks themselves wouldn't serve. And the puzzles: Trip had been two the first time he'd laid eyes on a jigsaw puzzle… and he'd never looked back since. People had thought Charlie was crazy, buying a five-hundred-piece puzzle as Christmas present for his three-year-old son, but Trip had been delighted. He'd spent hours carefully matching the pieces together, not caring what the picture was. When James came along, it was hard not to play favourites: James was nowhere near as bright as his older brother, hard as that was to admit.

But he couldn't stay in denial. He couldn't ignore the look on Trip's face as he'd stared at a shelf full of poisons. How? How could such a happy child reach a point where he wanted to die? How could someone who fought so hard to stay alive make the decision to give up?

I'm not going to lose you. If sending Trip away would save his life, then Charlie was willing to do it. I know you don't believe it, but I love you. You're my son. He sighed. Trip. His son, his namesake, the third in a row. Fiona had hated the nickname at first, but Charlie felt he'd owed the boy something for saddling him with an identity that in retrospect could never fit. Charles the Second and Charles the First were so middle of the road; bland rough sketches with none of the mesmerising spark that lit Trip from within, none of the wild gifts with which this boy was so blessed. Trip was no Charles, or Charlie, or Chuck…

I doubt I'll ever tell you the truth, though. Charlie smiled, remembering the day he started it. 'The Third' was a convenient lie, a way to justify an odd decision. He'd brought his toddling son to the office – just a quick stop to grab some things – and the younger Charles had wandered off in that inevitable way he had of chasing his curiosity. By the time Charlie tracked him down, the boy had already discovered a new freeway model and had begun dismantling it, carefully examining each piece then neatly laying it beside the one before.

"That yours?" One of the engineers came up behind Charlie and clapped him on the shoulder.

Charlie didn't answer, just took the latest part from the hands of his child and tried to put it back, explaining that it wasn't nice to take apart other people's things. As with all other messages he didn't want to hear, the boy ignored what his father was saying, calmly continuing in his work. The engineer watched for a bit, then shook his head.

"Man, that is something else. That kid is such a trip."

It had just fit, so perfectly. Nobody had ever believed the stories Charlie had to tell, seeing them as the tall tales of an overly proud father. Taken in the abstract, Trip couldn't be believed – you had to experience it for yourself.

You mean so much to me. Fiona was right: he hadn't been around; he hadn't been paying attention. He'd grown accustomed to the extraordinary gift he'd been given: this sweet, loving child who'd never shown one spark of jealousy towards his younger siblings. He hadn't wanted to believe that there could be anything the matter. How could I do that to you? Even what he had seen, he hadn't wanted to admit was as bad as he now knew it was.

Slowly, he turned away and went to make a call.