Disclaimer: I don't own Enterprise (or believe you me, there would be a different ending and possibly much later than now) or the characters. This is for entertainment only, no profit is realised from these works.
Author's Note: No, I haven't given up, nor do I intend to. Just because the execs at UPN and Paramount share braincells with the executive body of the NHL does not mean that my fun has to come to a racheting halt. Just as there is junior hockey, there is also fan-fiction.
Thank you to Kate98 and gaianarchy for the betas. Sorry this took so long, it's been a hell of a few months.
Chapter 5: Open Warfare
What's going on? Trip stared down at the car in the driveway – despite what everyone said, he refused to remain confined to the first floor. Dad might have brought the computer down, but he left all the models upstairs. Since he wasn't going to school yet, he needed something to curb the boredom and somewhere to hide from his mother and, increasingly, his father. Since he figured they'd look in his bedroom, he'd moved up into the attic where he now had the perfect view of a strange car pulling up. He felt his stomach tighten. Something was wrong. He knew it.
He unplugged his soldering gun and laid it in its cradle, then headed over to the stair release. He dropped the stairs, then headed down, using his hands and his good leg for support, half-crawling, half-sliding his way down. He raced as fast as he dared down the hallway, having abandoned the crutches downstairs as an annoyance. He stopped and listened, then crept forward again so he could peek into the entrance hall.
The door opened, and Malcolm walked in, all hunched up and looking scared. A tall, dark haired guy followed him; Trip looked from one face to the other and gritted his teeth. No question who the stranger was – he'd rendered that very same face only days before.
Mom and Dad came down the hall to meet them. Dad looked kinda sick, but Mom looked perfectly composed – she had to be more than half-wasted.
"Mister Reed?"
Malcolm's father inclined his head just slightly but said nothing.
"Thank you for coming. I'm sorry about this." To Trip's ear, his mother didn't sound sorry at all… she sounded pissed.
Malcolm's father turned his head just slightly towards Trip's father. "You said your son would be here?"
Dad sighed. "I'm pretty sure he hasn't gotten far." He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Trip has a pretty good sense for trouble, he's probably just hiding out until he thinks it's blown over."
"I see." Stuart Reed's face didn't change expression, but Trip could sense the extra chill in the tones.
Shit, Mal, no wonder you ran away if that's what you had to live with. At least when Mom and Dad got mad, they yelled and then it was over. This guy sounded like someone who could make you feel like shit just by saying hello. Trip also sensed that Malcolm would get it if Trip didn't make an appearance.
"I'm not the one who goes hiding out." He stepped out into the open and glared at his father. "You know, you could have tried asking where I was."
"You're supposed to stay down here." Dad's voice sounded dull, almost defeated.
What the hell? If Dad was angry, Trip could understand, but this didn't make sense. Why aren't you mad at me? You should be mad at me, since you've busted me… you're supposed to be mad at me… why aren't you mad at me? Something really big and bad had to be going on. Trip felt his palms start to sweat. Dad was right about one thing – he had a good sense of trouble, and this didn't feel like the cops. This had the sense of being much, much worse. Dad sounded like he did when Grandpa Charles died.
Trip's heart started to pound. Did something happen to James? Lizzie? Was that it? He swallowed hard, trying to wash the acid out of his throat. He started slowly down the stairs, leaning heavily on the railing. Then he saw them. A large suitcase sat by the door, with a smaller bag beside it. Malcolm hadn't brought that much stuff, so… "What's going on?"
Malcolm's father looked him up and down. "Charles?"
"Trip." He found himself intimidated by those steel-grey eyes, but tried to hold his ground.
"I think not." If you smashed into Stuart's tone with a car, the car would come out the worse.
"What's going on?" Trip repeated. He stopped moving, fighting the urge to turn and run. For one thing, he couldn't run and for another Malcolm's father would get mad and Malcolm didn't need that. Also, the only way to run was up – which would be okay if he had two working legs because he could always use the fire-ladder out the attic window – that, and he'd never make it fast enough.
"What's going on is you're in big trouble, Mister." Mom crossed her arms and glared at him.
He ignored her, trying to establish eye-contact with Malcolm who cowered beside Stuart. But Malcolm wouldn't look at him, meaning it was worse than Trip first thought.
Stuart turned to Charlie. "His things are ready?"
Things? What things? Trip's gaze flew once more to the suitcase. "Wha… what… what's going on? What… what do you mean things? What's going on here?" His voice rose in hysteria, cracking. They weren't… they couldn't be…
"Come here." Stuart didn't ask… he ordered.
Trip shook, then bolted, stumbling down the rest of the stairs and nearly falling. He pushed past his parents and into the living room before he stopped dead. His computer was gone. It wouldn't fit in the suitcase, and if he was supposed to be going somewhere…
He began to scream, an incoherent sound of rage. "You bitch!" It was her idea, he knew it.
"You obviously can't be trusted…" Fiona began, acid in her voice.
"You BITCH!" He screamed louder this time, turning around to face her. Some of the data on his hard drive was irreplaceable. Programs he'd spent months working on, gone. Probably in the garbage, that was something she'd do. Dad wouldn't go that far, but Mom would.
"That will be enough." Stuart stepped over and took hold of Trip's arm. "Your parents and I have discussed the matter. Since you and my son wish to spend so much time together, you will be allowed to do so; however, from now on you will have appropriate supervision."
Trip said nothing, his jaw too tense to allow any further speech. His fingers clenched into fists and it took all his concentration not to launch a punch into that smug, self-satisfied face. A single word kept looping in his mind. Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch…
Dad laid a hand on Trip's other arm, but Trip shook it off and smacked it away. He wasn't going to fall for that 'tears and sympathy' bullshit. He locked eyes with his mother. "This is the biggest mistake of your life. You are going to regret this. I guarantee you, you are going to regret this."
"Trip…" Dad tried to step in again, but it was too late. He was part of this conspiracy; he could suffer right alongside her.
"You're going to regret this." He pointed at his father, warning. "I am never coming back here, you understand? Never."
Oh, no. Malcolm could see that his father didn't believe it, and neither did Fiona. They thought Trip was just bluffing… exaggerating. But he wasn't. Malcolm knew it, and from the look in Charlie's eyes, he knew it too. Trip meant it. The second he walked out that door, he was never going to return.
"Let's go." Stuart started to pull Trip towards the door, but Trip didn't need encouragement.
Malcolm picked up the suitcase before Trip could. Trip couldn't carry it and manage on his cast at the same time, and Father would expect it. Malcolm could see his father's patience breaking; Stuart hated outbursts and Trip's belligerence was testing him beyond his normal limits. Maybe Trip couldn't tell, being more used to yelling, but Stuart was very, very angry. Malcolm tried to stay calm, but he was scared.
In the car, Trip said nothing, but Malcolm could see that his friend was thinking hard about something. Stuart, too, remained silent, but at least that was normal.
At the shuttleport, Stuart began checking the luggage in and arranging the boarding passes. When his back was turned, Trip limped off.
"Return here…" Stuart spotted Trip, and glared.
"Yeah, right, like I can outrun you. Relax… I'm not going far." Trip ignored the glare and continued over to a bank of phones. Malcolm watched as Trip leaned against the wall and stripped off his shoe and sock.
What is he… The answer became apparent as Trip covered up the camera on the phone, rendering the device blind. Only then did he enter a number and wait.
Someone must have answered, because Trip began to talk, growing agitated again as he did. Finally he ended the call and put his sock and shoe back on before returning to Malcolm. Tears streaked Trip's cheeks; instead of belligerent, he looked like he had some days back at camp: ready to die.
"Trip?"
"I turned them in, Mal…" Trip shook his head, the tears coming faster. "I called Social Services… I turned my baby brother and sister over to strangers. But I wasn't… I wasn't… I wasn't leaving them with her. They can make me go away… but I'm not leaving Lizzie and James in that hell."
Malcolm nodded. So that's how you're getting even. Fiona would probably be angry at Trip, but Charlie would be devastated. As for Trip… he seemed to have collapsed in on himself, resembling the dark half of the self-portrait he'd drawn. As the tears slowed, his eyes dulled, taking on the robotic aspect that had been in the picture.
"Trip…" Malcolm kept his voice low, not wanting his father to hear, but fortunately Stuart was too busy sorting out some details. "Are you going to be okay? We…"
Trip blinked slowly, once… twice. "No… No, I don't think I'm okay. I don't think I'll ever be okay. You should go now. It's better." Trip's voice sounded distant, like he wasn't talking to Malcolm at all, wasn't talking to anybody, really.
"Go? Trip, I can't go anywhere." Malcolm started to panic. Even when Trip had talked about suicide, he'd never been quite like this. "Father is taking us…"
"He's right. You should have other friends." Trip began staring at a baggage carrel, as though it had him hypnotised. His features became determined, like he had a plan and no one would stop him from carrying it out.
"Trip!" Malcolm grabbed his friend's arm and began shaking it. "I don't have other friends… you're the only person who'll be friends with me. I…"
"I turned them in, Mal. They'll be looked after now, they don't need me." Trip blinked again, his words slow and still distracted. "What's left?"
"Me. If you're my friend, then I'm your friend…"
"You're in trouble because of me, Malcolm!" Trip suddenly returned to the present, seemingly formed entirely of fury. "If you had any brains at all, you'd be running in the other direction." His shouts drew the attention of everybody around them. "So you go with your Daddy, and you get away from me…"
"That's enough." Stuart's icy tones cut through the fire of Trip's rage. "I will not allow that sort of outburst, do you understand? Nor will you speak back to me in the manner that you seem to think is appropriate with your parents. As of this moment, you will speak respectfully to those around you. You will speak, you will not scream. You will not interrupt your elders, you will respond only when you are addressed."
Trip met Stuart's stare straight on, and Malcolm tried to suppress a shiver. Trip tended to become obsessive when dealing with people he didn't like and Father was on that list. The other thing Father didn't seem to understand was that you couldn't demand respect from Trip. Things could get bad.
Trip didn't say another word for the rest of the trip and Malcolm worried even more. It was like this at camp… before he started to like Jonathan. This was worse, though. At least at camp it had seemed like part of a battle, but now it was more as though Trip was withdrawing into his own little world, and Malcolm already knew it wasn't a pleasant one.
(m)
At home, Malcolm showed Trip where the guestroom was, anticipating that they wouldn't be allowed to stay together. When Trip showed no interest in unpacking, Malcolm did it for him, knowing it would be better than provoking Stuart further. As he did, he tried to explain.
"Father isn't like your father, Trip. He really does expect you to listen to him, and he doesn't like it when you fight back."
Trip said nothing, just stood staring at a wall, as though in a trance. He only moved when Malcolm told him to and even then it was only as much as was necessary. When he finished, Malcolm tugged on Trip's sleeve.
"Come on… Father will be wanting to talk to us."
Trip followed Malcolm down the hall and Malcolm sensed that the cast wasn't the only thing slowing their progress. Outside the door to his father's office, Malcolm paused and responding to Malcolm, Trip did the same.
I don't want to do this. No matter what happened, it would be bad. Stuart and Trip were like chalk and cheese… no, more like sulphur and saltpetre, and words would serve as charcoal. Add the spark of emotion and… Sighing, he raised his hand and knocked.
"Enter."
Malcolm did as instructed and Trip followed, stopping when Malcolm did.
Stuart's eyes flicked to the cast on Trip's leg. "You may sit down."
Trip didn't move.
"You may…" Stuart repeated. The tone laid ice in the air.
Malcolm helped Trip to one of the chairs, wondering how much his friend even noticed. The only change in Trip from upstairs was a widening of the eyes and a little more stiffness in his frame.
"The acts that you two chose to engage in are reprehensible. Forgery, fraud, the unauthorised access of several databases… only the fact that you are underage is protecting you from prosecution. Are you aware of that?"
"Yes, Father." Malcolm knew better than to say more and Trip said even less, didn't even indicate that he'd heard.
"When I ask you a question, you will answer." Stuart's normally deadly glare seemed to go right past Trip rather than through him. "I said…"
Malcolm could see his father's anger building. He glanced over at Trip, wanting to beg him to stop antagonising Stuart and spotted movement. For a split-second there was relief, then he realised what Trip was doing. He scratched, no… clawed at his wrists, scraping skin away with each movement, getting slowly down into the flesh. It was as though in the absence of tools, he'd decided to use his fingernails to slit the veins and was just working his way down to them.
Could he actually do that? Could a person actually scratch away enough skin to commit suicide? How long would it take?
Stuart's eyes narrowed. "Malcolm, you may leave. We will continue to discuss this later."
"Yes, sir." Part of him wanted to scream out in defiance, to say 'No, I won't go!' but that part was too small to have a voice. Instead, he did as he was told, weighed down by the guilt of abandoning his friend.
He couldn't even make himself listen outside the door. Father expected him to go to his room and stay there, so he did. He hoped Father would realise that there was something wrong with Trip, that it wasn't simple defiance and bad manners. He may be American, Father, but…
In his room, he sat down and opened his journal. The school must have given it to Father with the rest of his things when they finally realised he was missing. He hadn't taken it with him because he had almost hoped he would have a new life. But now he knew that wasn't possible. He'd escaped briefly, but the enemy recaptured him and there would be even more security.
A sudden thought occurred to him. Why was Trip here? Hadn't Father said something about not wanting Malcolm to have anything to do with Trip? Why, then, would he agree to take him in?
Today, he wrote, some strange things happened. Father discovered I defied him, possibly even discovered that I committed several crimes, but so far all that has happened is that I have been returned home and confined to my room. It seems like such a loss, to find myself back where I started… or in similar circumstances at least. I believe, quite possibly, that the only reason I have not been hung, drawn and quartered is the presence of Trip, though I cannot figure out why he's here.
I am concerned about him. I think he might be broken …he paused, thinking, and more than just his leg.
I am concerned about myself as well. Am I really that much of a common criminal? Another though occurred to him. Then again, if I hadn't gone, perhaps Trip might have died. Maybe it was better that I did go. I wish I could ask questions… but there's no one I can ask.
I hope Trip gets better soon.
Malcolm sighed. Why did it have to be Father who found them? Why couldn't it have been Jonathan who came because Trip was hurting? Jonathan knew how to talk to Trip. Trip listened to Jonathan. Then maybe Trip wouldn't have had to leave his brother and sister, and then maybe he wouldn't be so upset.
He heard a tap on the door. Sighing, he stood up and walked over, opening it to reveal his sister.
"Madeline." He stepped aside to let her come in, wondering what she could possibly want to talk to him about.
"You're in trouble, Malcolm." She walked in and turned to stare at him as he closed the door. "Father is very, very angry with you. Who's that other boy? What's wrong with him? Why is he so skinny?"
"That's my friend Trip." He decided not to answer the second question, not fully. "He broke his leg, that's why he has to wear the cast."
"Oh." Madeline was silent for a moment. "Mother isn't happy, either. She said you made her lie to all her friends. She said everyone will laugh at her, because you're bad."
Malcolm snorted. "Well, Mother should get a grip. I'm not as bad as she wants to pretend I am."
Madeline's eyes widened. "You shouldn't say things like that, Malcolm. That's why you're in trouble. Father says that you're a disgrace to the family."
Malcolm's mind flashed to Fiona. "They don't know what a 'disgrace to the family' is. If I ran away, it's because of how they treat me." He sat down on the bed more like Trip tended to, causing the springs to protest. "How long before anybody even figured out I ran away? Half the time I don't think Father even knows who I am. I could pay someone else to stand and listen to his lectures and he'd never know the difference."
"You're going to get in trouble, saying things like that."
"I thought I was already in trouble," Malcolm muttered. Then he realised who he sounded like. Oh, well. "In for a penny, in for a pound."
"When that man called, Father even yelled afterwards. He said you were the most irresponsible person. Then he said," Madeline furrowed her brow, thinking. "He said that when he says someone is a bad influence, he means it."
"Father just doesn't want me to have friends," Malcolm said softly. Of course, he didn't. Malcolm was going to be a Naval officer one day, and officers couldn't afford close friends. Most people didn't stay close when one traveled so much, and it was too difficult to balance command decisions and friendship. That's what Father said, anyway. Malcolm wasn't so certain Father knew everything anymore. Then Malcolm blinked. "What man?"
Madeline shrugged. "He sounded funny. After he talked to Father, Father was very upset."
Was that how Father found him? Did Mr. Tucker somehow track him down? Was that why Trip was here? Malcolm would have thought that Fiona would have turned them in. Charlie had seemed upset with Trip leaving. But Madeline definitely said 'man' and Madeline didn't make mistakes with her eavesdropping. He doubted it was Jonathan, because he didn't think Jonathan could convince Father to take in Trip. If it was Mr. Tucker… did he tell you anything about Trip? Did he tell you what happened?
"Madeline," Malcolm looked at his sister, his face serious. "Can you go listen to what Father is talking about right now?"
"I'm not supposed to eavesdrop, Malcolm." Madeline narrowed her eyes and glared at him. "You want to get me into trouble too."
Malcolm smiled, dangerously. "If you don't do it, I'll tell Father that you eavesdropped before. And I'll tell him who wrecked his lycaena arota." Father had been livid when he found the delicate wings of his only Tailed Copper Butterfly broken and shredded. Madeline had been trying to get a better look when she dropped the case and Malcolm had lied, saying she had been with him and that they didn't know what had happened.
"You're mean, Malcolm." Madeline made a face and stormed off, hopefully to do what he asked.
Elizabeth wouldn't have said that. Trip's sister would have gladly done anything for her brother; he didn't have to blackmail her.
Adults were the problem, Malcolm decided. The world would be much better if adults gave it over to children. He folded his hands in his lap and waited.
I don't care what you say, I don't care what you do. I don't want to be here, I don't care. I'm more trouble than I'm worth, so why are you even bothering? Trip scratched at his arms trying to drive away the itch. He was dead, because this had to be Hell.
"I have spoken extensively with your parents and with your father in particular. I will be blunt. The attitude you take with them is unacceptable. While you are in my household, you will treat others with respect. Is that clear?"
Trip said nothing.
"Young man, I have been granted custody. That includes, if necessary, the authority to call a physician. Your parents may be unwilling to have you forcibly committed, but I am not."
"Go ahead." Trip's voice was soft – he barely even heard it himself. "I don't care." He closed his eyes, turning his head away.
"You…"
"You haven't got a fucking clue." Trip wasn't sure who he was talking to. Or if he was even talking anymore.
"I will not countenance that sort of language…"
"No, you wouldn't." Even with his eyes closed, he could sense them. Watching from their glass cages on the walls, those compound eyes catching every movement, waiting for him to die so they could feast on his flesh. Bugs. Hundreds of them. Stuart Reed, Lord of the Flies, and the beetles and the crickets and the spiders. Hell wasn't fire, Trip wanted fire. Hot, raging fire to clear this place out, get rid of the monsters, ashes to ashes. He shuddered, unable to escape the feeling that they were already on him, crawling, burrowing, chewing.
"Look at me when you speak." No fire in Stuart's voice, only ice.
Trip shook his head and tried to pull deeper into his clothing, put some armour between him and… them. He didn't dare open his eyes, if he opened his eyes he'd see not a man on the other side of that desk but a giant bug, staring at him and drooling. Just like Jeff Goldblum in that movie… the one horror movie Trip vowed never to watch. The Fly. Not any of them… the '58, the '86 or the 2006. How could Malcolm stand it? How could he sit here in this room whenever his father wanted to lecture, how could he sit here with all those eyes, watching? No wonder he could be so brave. If he could stand this, what could really scare him?
He wanted to throw up, but he couldn't. He had nothing on his stomach to throw up. He could feel his heart pounding but at the same time he didn't dare breathe – they'd crawl in through his nose and into his lungs, eat him up from the inside. He wanted to run away, but the bugs had him pinned.
Stuart said something else, but the words were lost, too far away and in a foreign insect hiss. Then finally Trip's unsaid prayer was answered and there was nothing.
(t)
He woke to clean, crisp sheets and another set of staring eyes. These looked kind of familiar though. The hair might have been a bit darker and the lines of the face sharper, but the eyes could only belong to one species: the little sister.
"Hey." Adults he could scream at, swear at, mess with. Adults could take care of themselves. Kids were different. He would never hurt a kid.
She said nothing, just kept staring.
"Are you Maddy?" She had to be, unless the Reeds let random little girls wander around the place.
She pursed her lips in a frown, but still didn't say anything. Then she wrinkled her nose, turning and running from the room.
Okay, one of those things. Little sisters did weird things sometimes; you just got used to it. Stuart obviously hadn't followed through on his threat, because this certainly wasn't a hospital.
Liar. Stuart liked to pretend he was the great disciplinarian, but he was worse than a college student. At least Jon actually followed through on his bluffs.
Jon. Trip bolted upright. He'd been so caught up in the drama that he forgot to check something important, vital even. Did anybody… Somebody had changed his clothes… did they go through his pockets, too? Did they… He scanned the room frantically, but couldn't find any trace of the clothing he'd been wearing. Uh, oh… please, God, please don't let him find them.
Madeline reported back to her brother. "He's awake now."
Malcolm sighed. "Thank you." When she first told him that Trip had passed out, he'd panicked, before remembering that Trip was afraid of insects. Father's study must have been horrifying. "Did he say anything?"
"He sounds funny." Madeline confirmed. "Like that man."
So it definitely had been Mr. Tucker who called and not Jonathan. There was no way Madeline would confuse a Southern American accent with a Northern one.
Madeline seemed to remember something else. "Father talked to him again."
"That man?" Sometimes Madeline could be frustratingly vague about who 'him' might refer to. Sometimes Madeline could be frustrating vague about a lot of things. She was very much like Mother that way.
She nodded. "Father looked even more angry."
Oh dear. That meant Father would be coming to talk to Malcolm very soon. "Did you give them to him? To Trip?"
Madeline blinked, confused. Then her expression cleared. "Those things. No."
Malcolm rolled his eyes. "Maddy… I told you to give them to him." Sneaking down to the laundry was a dangerous move, but if Father found… those… he wouldn't be angry, he'd be furious. He turned his sister around and gave her a gentle shove. "Go. Give them to him."
"You're mean, Malcolm." Madeline started to pout.
"I can be meaner," Malcolm warned. "I've learned how." He didn't dare take them back himself… if Father caught him anywhere near Trip's room, Hell would be the easy price to pay.
Madeline barely disappeared before Father arrived.
"Malcolm." Father's voice was stern.
"Yes?" Malcolm tried to keep the quaver from his voice. Father looked very, very upset.
"A doctor is coming for your friend. I don't suppose you would have any enlightenment as to his behaviour."
Yes, Father. He passed out on purpose, just to bother you. Father seemed to think that fear was a matter of choice. "I believe he's phobic of insects, Father. Perhaps he found your study overwhelming."
Stuart's eyes glittered. "Are you certain that is all?"
"All I can think of, yes." Was it his imagination, or did Father seem rather pleased? He might be at that… he was rather proud of his collection.
"You should be aware that I have yet to decide your punishment. However, the consequences will be severe, I assure you."
"Yes, Father." This time Malcolm didn't even try to modify his tone. Meek probably was the best thing to go for.
"You will be cognizant of the fact that your actions were not only disgraceful, they were criminal. Your friend might have the excuse of ignorance, but you do not."
"No, Father." That small, rebellious part once again wanted to scream, wanted to say that Trip was far from ignorant, and once again it was outvoted.
"In the meantime, you are confined to your room. Any and all privileges are suspended immediately."
"Yes, Father." He knew he was supposed to say 'thank you' as well, but he couldn't. No matter what Stuart thought, he was not being generous, he was simply doing as he could be expected.
His father left, and Malcolm sighed. Hopefully this time Madeline would remember what she was doing, because if Father was in one of those moods, Trip needed all the confidence he could get.
The little sister returned and resumed staring. Trip stared back for a moment, then gave up. No one could stare like little sisters.
"Can I help you?"
"Mally said to give you these." Madeline stuck her hand out and dropped something on the bed.
Trip scooped them up, ignoring the pain as the small metal rods bit into his palm. "Thank you. Thank you." He wasn't sure who he was thanking – God, Madeline or Malcolm – but his picks were safe. Stuart hadn't found them, they weren't on their way to disposal or worse.
"Father says you're a bad person." Like Elizabeth, Madeline seemed to have no trouble speaking her mind. The thought of his own sister sent a knife ripping into his soul. Was she okay? Did she hate him?
"Sometimes I think so," Trip agreed.
"He was mad when you fainted. He said a bad word."
"Really." Trip tried to imagine the ultra-correct Stuart actually swearing. It must have qualified as an occasion. Less than a day. I'm still good. Before he could say more, she turned and left again.
A couple of minutes later, Stuart entered, trailed by another man.
What am I, Exhibit A? The Bearded Fat Lady at the circus? Or maybe none of you noticed that I was sick. Burying the picks beneath the blanket, he focussed his eyes on a spot on the ceiling, hoping they'd get the hint and go away. No such luck.
The stranger came over and sat down on the side of the bed. "I'm Dr. Robinson… you are Charles, I believe?"
Trip didn't bother answering. I'll answer to 'Charles' at my funeral. At the same time, he knew that identifying himself as 'Trip' would send Stuart into another round of the snippies. As tempting as it was, it was the weaker move. Sometimes you have to sacrifice an immediate battle to win the entire game. Mr. Shigai kept reminding him of that fact in almost every game they played. Sometimes an opening is a trap. He wondered if Mom and Dad had bothered to pack his Go set, or if they even realised what it was. Probably not. Not that it mattered, because he wouldn't have anyone to play against, here.
Dr. Robinson took silence as assent and began shining a bright light in Trip's eyes. It was all Trip's brain needed.
He gasped and turned his head away. He swallowed hard, trying not to throw up what wasn't there. What kind of a doctor was this, anyway, that he used old-fashioned torture devices to treat a patient? Next thing you knew, he'd be hauling out leeches. "Leave me alone."
"I know this isn't comfortable…" Dr. Robinson began.
"Go away." Trip struck out, connecting with something that felt like flesh.
"That is…" Stuart fell silent, maybe because the doctor told him to, but Trip didn't care.
Just everybody stay shut up. Were these guys morons or what? Even Mom would have the sense to go away and leave him alone.
He heard a couple of clicks then felt something press against his neck. He winced slightly as the hypospray hissed, sending the ultra-fine mist of whatever it was through his skin and into his bloodstream.
The pain eased, bringing with it an overwhelming sense of exhaustion. Robinson might have been a lousy doctor, but he had good drugs. Praying he'd wake up in the same place, Trip slipped into oblivion.
Malcolm woke up before his alarm could ring; he'd been unable to properly fall asleep anyway. If Father hadn't been happy to discover Trip's aversion to insects, then he was disappointed, to say the least, to learn about the migraines. He seemed to think it was Malcolm's fault for not warning him that Trip was even more defective than advertised.
Like me. That was one thing he truly envied about Trip's life, as rotten as parts of it were. No matter what Trip did, his parents weren't ashamed of him. Angry with him at times, or frustrated… but they never seemed to wish they had a different child, one that wasn't so weak both in mind and body. But Father does. At least Malcolm had the reassurance now of knowing he wasn't the only one, that maybe he was closer to normal than he'd been told.
I'm not the failure… Father is. He took some comfort in that thought. After all, according to the Tuckers, he, Malcolm, was a wonderful child. They weren't the only ones: the teachers had been impressed, too.
Maybe dealing with Trip will teach Father that I'm not so bad. It was a mean little thought, but he had it anyway. After all, all Malcolm had against him was that he was a little bit small and tended towards morose. Which wasn't so bad when pitted against a temper that could blow the tops off mountains and enough stubbornness for an entire herd of mules.
On the other hand, at least Trip has a little sister whose head wouldn't be mistaken for a feather pillow. He hoped Madeline remembered the second time to actually give the picks to Trip. He hoped Father didn't catch her, or worse yet, she tell Father what she was doing. And to think they're less disappointed in you than they are in me.
He sighed and got dressed. One thing was certain: there'd be no chocolate sour-cream pancakes for this breakfast. He'd never really thought about food before ending up at the Tuckers'… food was just something you ate to keep going. You cleaned your plate and you didn't ask for seconds. Then suddenly he found himself being asked what he wanted and finding out that there were breakfast foods beyond oatmeal.
He went downstairs and waited at the table, silently. Madeline joined him and he could hear Mother in the kitchen. Father wasn't here and neither…
Father entered, holding Trip by the collar. Trip looked like he'd just been pulled out of bed, and by Father's expression, he probably had. Father dropped Trip into a chair then took his own place at the head of the table.
Mother brought in the breakfast and as Malcolm had suspected it consisted of her famous lumpy oatmeal. Suppressing a sigh, he reached for his spoon and the milk.
Trip didn't move. He dropped his gaze quickly to the bowl, then stared past it as though it couldn't possibly exist.
Father didn't seem to notice that Trip wasn't eating and Malcolm decided not to draw any attention to the fact. It's not like he'd let you have something different if you don't like it. The only thing that would happen would be Father getting indigestion.
After five minutes, Stuart spoke. "Young man, eat your breakfast."
Trip looked like he was going to say something, then he looked at Mother and stayed silent.
Mother and Madeline quickly finished their own breakfast then Mother hurriedly took Madeline away, ostensibly to get her ready for school.
"You will…"
"Manners forbade me from commenting earlier." Trip looked over at Stuart, eyes glittering angrily. "My parents taught me a long time ago that I wasn't supposed to eat paste."
Oh, no. Malcolm groaned inwardly. You just didn't want to hurt Mother's feelings because she cooked it. That had to be what Trip meant by manners. On the other hand, since Trip and Father had already declared an open war, it seemed that Trip was quite willing to speak his mind now that she was gone.
"There is nothing wrong with that. Now eat it." Father's glare could have burned holes through granite.
"There are more things wrong with this than I can count." Trip's gaze didn't waver.
"It's perfectly good…"
"…drywall spackle." Trip finished. "You can probably even sand it when it dries."
Oh, no. Were it not for the tone, Trip's words could have been taken as a joke. As it stood they served as accelerant on a smouldering anger.
"You will eat what you are given." Father wasn't used to disobedience, didn't like it at all. Malcolm watched his fingers tighten around his spoon.
"Fine, and should I expect a chaser of drain cleaner?" Clearly, Trip had decided not to listen to Father's edict on respect. Then again, he wouldn't. Trip didn't respect people who tried to push him around. He thought it was bullying, and Trip had a blind-spot in thinking that all bullies were weak. Jonesy had nearly killed him, and Trip still persisted in seeing Jonesy as a wimp.
"Malcolm!" Father snapped. "Return to your room. You are confined there until further notice."
"Yes, Father." He wondered what he'd done to draw attention.
"What the hell is that for? He didn't do anything." Trip sounded shocked and confused, more hurt than angry.
"You are his guest. He is responsible for your behaviour." Father's tone implied that such a thing should be obvious.
"Like hell." Trip shook his head violently. "He didn't make me come here… hell, if it was his choice, neither one of us would be here, because Malcolm's smarter than that. And nobody's responsible for my behaviour. What I do, I do. He's got nothing to do with it."
"He chose, over my better judgement, to remain acquainted with you. As such, he has chosen to accept the consequences of that friendship."
That's right, Father… your judgement. Malcolm didn't say it aloud, though. He didn't dare.
"Hell, I got the impression you were an asshole." Trip's voice dropped, became nastier. "You didn't even check on Mal when he nearly got killed. But I never imagined you were as big a bastard as this." He began to eat, slowly. "You know, in America we have this thing called justice. It means you don't have to be punished for someone else's crime."
"Malcolm." Father seemed to notice that he hadn't left yet.
"Yes, sir." He knew better than to argue or to even try to defend Trip. Especially since Trip was actually eating. Reluctantly, maybe, but steadily. If Malcolm had to stay in his room for that to happen, he was more than willing. After all, they hadn't even known each other a whole year and Trip had already risked his life twice to save Malcolm's. If having Father mad at him would save Trip's life… It's still hardly a fair trade. He just hoped that in the process of staying alive, Trip didn't get himself killed.