Title: Thursday's Child
Author: Sita Z
Rating: T
AN: Thanks for the feedback!
Firebirdgirl (yeah, Malcolm wouldn't want to do anything stupid at the moment...), JadziaKathryn (I'm glad you say you liked Patricks' POV; he was interesting to write, although... or maybe because... he's not your usual altruistic Starfleet Captain), Virgo (thank you! please let me know what you think of the next chapter...), Tata (thanks for reviewing and sorry about the short chapter ;)! This one's longer, I promise...), Luna (hm... well... I'm not telling... would kill the suspense, I guess ;) ), Trips Girl (again, I can't really answer any question without giving too much away ;)... but I'm glad you like it so much), Gabi (hier kommt das langerwartete Kissenkapitel... ich muss immer noch grinsen, wenn ich an deine Beschreibung eines ausgewachsenen Malcolm denke, der an seiner Station sitzt und an seinem Kuschelkissen schnullt ;) ), stage manager (thanks for what you said about Patricks... please keep telling me what you think!), The Libran Iniquity (EXACTLY my thoughts... they need to understand that Vulcans -are- different and don't want to be turned into pointy-eared humans... oh well, here I go again ;)... danke für deinen Review!), Cha Oseye Tempest Thrain (...you certainly do have a point there...), Emiliana Keladry (you're right, that's what they should've done, but I guess they just don't care enough to go to the trouble), Maraschino (...No, I'm not telling, sorry ;)... thank you for reviewing!), JennMel (...hopefully not...), BananaTrip (Trip -never- gets a break... I just love to torture the poor guy -g-), RoaringMice (thank you! please keep reviewing, I love hearing what you think!)
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Chapter 16
Clouds gathering outside the window. From their fourth-floor apartment, he can't see the street or any of the few trees, not even the street lamps' faint glow. There is only that tiny patch of gray sky, growing darker as the evening sunshine fades away. Malcolm can't remember ever being so scared before.
He buries his face in the large pillow he is hugging, knowing instinctively that the familiar softness and warm smell will ease his fright a little. His bed suddenly seems far too large for him, and he wishes he could find a hole to hide away from the silence around him. It is a comforting idea, curling up in a small, warm hiding place where he is safe. Where it wouldn't matter that it is growing dark outside, that he is alone and that Father has not come home tonight. Eyes tightly closed, Malcolm draws the pillow closer to his chest and pretends that none of this is happening.
He must have fallen asleep, for it is completely dark outside when he wakes up again. The pillow beneath his face is cold and wet, the salt of dried tears tickling his skin. Malcolm hadn't even noticed that he was crying. His throat is sore and he can hardly speak up above a whisper.
"Father?"
No response. That doesn't mean he's not home yet, Malcolm tells himself. Maybe he's sleeping. And he never wakes up until early afternoon when he's been out the night before.
He considers leaving his bed and seeing for himself if Father is back. The idea of walking through the darkness all the way over to the light switch scares him, but Malcolm realizes that he doesn't really have any choice. His full bladder is beginning to hurt, and he can either leave the safety of his blanket cocoon and venture into the darkness beyond, or he can wet his bed. Malcolm is terrified of the Things that can come at you from under the bed, jump out of the closet, creep up on you from behind the cupboard and swoop down at you from the ceiling lamp, Things that he knows are there even though you can't see them at daytime. But he needs to go. And you didn't wet your bed at the age of four. Well, or at the age of three-and-eight-months. Babies wet their beds, but he is old enough to know when he needs to use the bathroom. Like right now.
He wriggles out of the blankets that seem to cling to him, and carefully, very carefully sets one bare foot on the rug. Nothing happens, and he lets the other foot follow, still hugging his pillow close to his chest. A strange thought, the sort that will come to you only in the dark, suddenly crosses his mind. The pillow is a lucky charm; as long as he doesn't let go he is going to be alright. Malcolm holds it like a shield as he crosses the room, knowing that the second he releases the pillow the Things will come down on him.
He doesn't let go even after turning on the light, his left arm wrapped tightly around his security pillow as he opens the door to the hall. Malcolm sees immediately that Father has not come home while he has slept. The coat rack is empty except for Malcolm's small blue windcheater, and the only shoes on the floor beneath are his old sneakers which he has carefully set side by side, like he is used to do. He likes for everything to be neat and orderly, and always hangs up Father's jacket when he finds it crumpled up in a corner after another Night Out. Malcolm is too small to reach the coat rack and has to get a chair in order to do so, but he does it anyway. Like his pillow or the carefully arranged shoes, hanging up Father's jacket makes him feel safe.
Malcolm stares at the place where Father usually throws his old brown coat, and a feeling of dull dread begins to spread in his chest. This isn't right. Father has left as soon as Malcolm got home, has put on his coat and walked out without even looking at Malcolm. That in itself is strange, but it has happened before. Sometimes, he knows, Father just needs to Get Out. Malcolm doesn't like to be alone, but he is alright, taking care of himself for one afternoon and getting his own supper out of the fridge. He is, after all, not a baby. But Father isn't supposed to stay away a whole night. He can't. Grown-ups don't do that kind of thing.
It's not a whole night, Malcolm tells himself, resuming his way to the bathroom across the hall. Not yet, anyway. He's going to come home before morning. Of course he is. He always does.
Malcolm manages to pull down his pajama trousers and use the toilet without letting go of his pillow, which makes him feel a little better. As long as he doesn't let go of the lucky charm, things are going to be alright. And Father is going to come home. Soon.
After leaving the bathroom, Malcolm walks over to the front door and sits down under the coat rack, hugging his pillow harder than ever. Chances are that Father will fall over him when he comes home, but Malcolm doesn't mind. That way, he will wake up as soon as Father is back. The idea comforts him enough to keep any more tears at bay, and soon he is asleep, his head resting on the pillow in his arms.
... hurts. A dull pain tugging at his mind, trying to drag him back to consciousness. He wants to give in to it, but something else, something stronger than the pain, won't let go, pulling him in the other direction, deeper and deeper until he is back where...
The morning sunshine outside stirs him back to reality. Malcolm opens his eyes, momentarily confused when he finds himself sitting in the hall in his pajamas. His feet are cold, and his behind aches from the hard floor. He raises one hand to rub the sleep out of his eyes, mindful to keep his other hand firmly wrapped around the pillow. For some reason it seems very important not to let go.
Father is still gone.
At first, his sleepy mind doesn't really know how to deal with the thought and he pushes it away, clinging to his pillow as he slowly climbs to his feet. Sleeping out in the hall has left him weary and shaking with cold. Malcolm is still confused as to why he has done so in the first place.
Blearily, he glances up at the still empty coat rack and reality hits a second time, this time hard enough to take his breath away. Father has not come home. It is morning and Malcolm is still alone. He hugs the pillow so hard he almost expects the seams to split, his heart hammering in his chest.
Father is gone.
Malcolm can't fight the tears that fill his eyes, or the sobs that escape him. This has never happened before, Father has never left him alone for more than one night. In the morning, Malcolm has always woken up to find him, snoring and smelling of Bad Stuff, in his bedroom at the end of the hall. He hardly ever gets up to fix them breakfast or get Malcolm's packed lunch ready, but he is there. Snoring, smelling, sometimes stumbling out of bed to be sick into the toilet, but there.
Malcolm crouches down on the floor of the hall and weeps into his pillow. His sobs echo strangely in the empty apartment, frightening him. And what if Father never comes back, a nasty voice in his head speaks up. What if he left me here because I was bad, I know it's my fault that he is always crying and drinking Bad Stuff because I'm a bad bad boy, why else should he do so, and I don't even have a mum like other kids do and that's my fault too, because I'm just so BAD...
After a while he has no tears left to cry, and lies, exhausted, on his pillow which feels soaked and warm under his fingers. It's no longer a lucky charm, it won't make Father come back to pick him up and tell him that "it's alright, Skipper", but Malcolm still can't let go.
His stomach hurts, and while it is mostly because he has cried so hard, Malcolm realizes that he is hungry. And it is morning, he thinks while he slowly sits up again. Breakfast time. He knows how to fix his own breakfast, has done so a hundred times before when Father was still sleeping. But before that he needs to get dressed. He never eats breakfast without dressing first, even though no one would notice if he did.
Dragging his pillow along behind himself, Malcolm stumbles into his bedroom. His clothes are hanging over the backrest of his chair where he has left them the night before, and he takes them down, one piece after the other, and lays them down on the floor. For a moment, he stares down at them, unsure how he is going to put them on without letting go of the pillow. Then he carefully sets the pillow down next to his clothes, sits down on it and begins to pull off his pajama top.
The only thing he can't find are his socks, but Malcolm supposes that it doesn't matter. One hand clutching the pillow, he gathers up his pajamas and puts them away, awkwardly straightening the blankets afterwards. It doesn't look as neat as if he had done it with both hands, but it will have to do for today.
The bread bin in the kitchen is empty except for a dried-up roll and two pieces of toast. Malcolm takes them out anyway, then pries open the door of the refrigerator with his fingers since he is too short to reach the handle. A box of milk sits on one of the lower shelves, and he manages to take it out with one hand, carrying it over to the table and setting it down next to the toast. Toast and milk is what he mostly has for breakfast, and the familiar sight of the food comforts him a little.
He eats his breakfast sitting on his pillow, dipping the dry toast into his milk. The milk tastes somewhat funny, a little sour, but he drinks it anyway. When he is done, he carries his dishes over to the sink and wipes the crumbs off the table. There is only the roll left for lunch, but he doesn't mind. He doesn't feel all that hungry, anyway.
With his morning routine done, Malcolm slowly walks out into the hall again, feeling at a loss what to do. Today is Saturday, which means that he isn't going to Day Care. There has been a time when Father used to take him to places on Saturday, to the seaside or to a park where Malcolm could play. But he doesn't do so anymore, and today Malcolm mostly spends his weekends in his bedroom, playing very quietly so as not to wake Father.
Malcolm stares at the closed front door, imagining the corridor behind it with its dirt-stained walls and the broken lift. Maybe Father is somewhere out there, not too far away. Maybe he can go and find him. It shouldn't be too hard, he knows his way around the neighborhood. And he could take his pillow, just to be sure. Anything seems better than staying here, in the silent apartment where Things are lurking in dark places.
Malcolm slips into his sneakers, then pulls a chair over to the coat rack to get his windcheater. He almost topples over, chair and all, but then manages to hold on to both his jacket and the pillow without losing his balance. The thought of going outside puts his mind at ease. He is going to find Father, and then he is going to say sorry. Sorry for being bad, sorry for making him unhappy, and will he please please come back home.
He takes a deep breath and reaches out for the door handle, pulling it down. The door doesn't budge. Malcolm tries again, more vehemently this time, but the door won't move. It is locked.
For a moment, Malcolm stands motionless. Then he throws himself at the door, barely noticing that he has let go of his pillow, pounding on the wooden surface with his fists. He sobs and screams himself into exhaustion, then curls up in front of the door and hides his face in his arms. The silence pounds in his head and he covers his ears with his hands, trying not to listen...
...someone talking. A man's voice, but he can't make out the words. The pain of before is gone, but he feels strangely heavy, unable to move. Someone touches him and he tries to concentrate on the sensation, use it as a guide to return his mind to awareness, but he can't. An invisible rope is pulling at him, dragging him under, back to where he doesn't want to go...
In the second night, the rain starts. Malcolm lies curled up under the heavy blanket in Father's bed, listening to the steady knocking of the raindrops on the window. It sounds as though someone... or something... is drumming their fingers on the window, impatiently demanding to be let in. Malcolm trembles and pulls the pillow closer to his aching stomach. The bitter taste of vomit is still present in his mouth, even though he has flushed his mouth several times after he was sick. To calm down his upset stomach, he has tried to drink some more milk from the fridge only to be violently sick again, this time onto the kitchen floor. He hasn't even found the strength to clean up the mess, barely managing to drag himself back to bed. Father's bed. It's the only place where the Things can't reach him, even though he can hear them rummaging around in the hall and scratching their claws over the walls and furniture. Or maybe it's just the rain. He doesn't care anymore, his terror ebbing away into a deep exhaustion.
He must have fallen asleep at some point, since he wakes up to broad daylight coming in through the window. Raindrops are glistening in the sun, and Malcolm blinks in confusion, hugging his pillow closer to himself. He feels so very weak, and the blanket seems to be pinning him down on the bed, holding him captive. His upset stomach has settled down again, and only gives a dull pang when he tries to move. Malcolm lies utterly still, listening to the faint sound of people talking outside, of traffic going by and a dog barking. Maybe Father is out there with those people. Maybe he's waiting for his son to come and find him, to say sorry. Fresh tears trickle down Malcolm's cheeks. He can't go anywhere. The door is locked and his legs feel so weak; his head starts to spin whenever he gets out of bed. He can hardly make it to the bathroom anymore.
Malcolm watches the raindrops as they trickle down the window and slowly dry away. If he stares at them long enough, they start to blur before his eyes, becoming tiny stars that sparkle in a thousand different colors. It's a beautiful sight. He squints his eyes shut and suddenly feels very light, as though he is floating, swimming in those colors. Maybe if he waits, they will take him away to a different place, a warm and safe place where he won't be alone... all he has to do is wait a little while longer...
His stomach clenches in a sudden, painful spasm and the colors dissolve in front of his eyes. Malcolm presses a fist against his mouth, kicking his legs to get rid of the blanket. His feet get caught in the heavy fabric and he feels a stab of panic - he can't be sick into Father's bed, he can't. Another kick and the blanket is gone, cold air hitting his bare feet. Malcolm sits up and immediately regrets his move. The room starts to spin around him and his stomach protests against the sudden change of position, leaving him retching and gagging. Fortunately, though, all that comes out are a few drops of spit which land on the rug in front of the bed.
Shivering, Malcolm waits for the nausea to wear off, then slides off the bed and walks on shaky legs to the door. All he wants to do is lie down again and close his eyes, maybe go back to see those colors again, but first he needs to get rid of that nasty taste in his mouth.
Crossing the hall, Malcolm sees several of the Things, quick, darting shadows at the very periphery of his vision. He clutches his pillow, determined not to let go. As long as he doesn't let go, he is safe. The Things can't hurt him as long as he has got his pillow. And there are no dark corners in the bathroom, no places where they could hide. Only tiles and towels and the tiny window next to the shower stall. In here, he feels safe enough if he only sees the pillow without actually touching it.
Malcolm is too short to reach the tap over the sink, so he pulls a stool over to the washstand and uses it as a stepladder. His fingers shake as he turns on the tap, and it takes him several attempts to catch some of the water in his cupped hands and bring it to his mouth.
When he is done, he wipes his wet hands over his face. The cool water feels good on his skin and he lets his hands rest on his hot cheeks for a moment, closing his eyes. It's a calming sensation, like someone washing his face with a cool sponge.
He almost stumbles on his way back to Father's room, only barely managing to steady himself on the wall. Malcolm knows that he won't be able to get up again if he falls, and carefully watches his steps on the rest of the way. Pillow or no, the mere idea of staying in the hall where the Things roam about fills him with dread.
Once he is back in bed, Malcolm curls up to a small ball on the blanket and positions the pillow on top of himself. It covers him almost completely, and he draws his arms and legs even closer to himself, like a turtle withdrawing into its shell. Protected by his lucky charm and thoroughly exhausted from his trip to the bathroom, Malcolm drifts away to sleep.
... a brief moment of awareness, opening his eyes only to be blinded by the light, and still he knows that he can't stay here, not when the thing tugging at him refuses to let go...
Voices. Malcolm opens his eyes and his first thought is that the Things are back. Talking. Thumping on the front door, hollering out for someone, he can't understand the name. It doesn't matter. He knows that they want him. They have been waiting, afraid to come close to him because of his lucky charm, but now their patience has worn thin. The sky outside has grown dark again, their time of the day has arrived and now they are going to come for him.
Malcolm can't stifle a small whimper when the thumping on the front door gets louder. He clutches his pillow, realizing at the same time that it won't be able to protect him. Not anymore. Something warm and wet spreads in his crotch, and Malcolm tightly squeezes his eyes shut when he hears the front door burst open and slam against the wall. He doesn't want to see them when they come in.
Stiff with fear, he lies and listens as they stomp around in the hall, calling out that "He's not in his room." Strange, he would have expected them to know that he is in Father's room; after all, they saw him coming out to get a drink of water. Their steps are coming closer, and Malcolm buries his face in his pillow. No, he is not going to look at them.
"Over here, Dave! He's in here!"
Malcolm clenches his hands to fists, waiting for the Thing to grab him. Bite him. Tear him apart. He wonders if it's going to hurt, then decides not to think about it. He knew this was going to happen, and now he only wants it to be over.
"Oh my God." A voice close to his head. "I think he's..."
"Let me see." Something - a hand, he realizes, not a claw - touches his shoulder, feeling its way to his neck. The fingers rest there for a moment, then, to Malcolm astonishment, withdraw again instead of closing around his throat. "No, he's okay. Thank God."
"Hey." The hand is back, but this time it stays on his shoulder, squeezing gently. "Can you hear me?"
It's a woman speaking, Malcolm realizes, and she doesn't sound as though she wants to hurt him. It could be trick, of course. Very carefully, he turns his head a little, and sees that the hand belongs indeed not to one of the Things, but to a woman. A woman with red hair and freckles and a police uniform.
"Hey," she says and smiles at him, but she doesn't look happy. "You're Malcolm, right?"
He nods, unable to speak. Behind the woman, he can see another man in a police uniform and old Mrs. Stanley from next door. She seems to be crying, although he doesn't know why.
"We found your father, Malcolm," the red-haired woman says, her thumb stroking his shoulder. "He is going to be alright, but he'll have to stay in the hospital for a while. He told us where to find you when he woke up. I know all of this is very frightening for you, but it's going to be okay. You're going to be fine."
Malcolm doesn't understand. Why would Father be in the hospital? And how could the police have "found" him?
"That drunken bastard." Mrs. Stanley's voice sounds hoarse and angry. "I always knew it was going to come to this. Leaving the poor little guy all alone in here, he should be arrested for child abuse."
The policewoman turns her head to look at Mrs. Stanley. "Well, if you always knew, then why didn't you report him?"
Mrs. Stanley says nothing and looks down at her hands, her cheeks growing red. Malcolm doesn't know what they are talking about, but it doesn't matter. There is only one thing he cares about at the moment.
"Is Father angry with me?" he asks, his voice trembling. Usually, Malcolm is afraid to talk to strangers, but right now he doesn't care. "Is that why he didn't come home? B-because I've been bad?"
He feels tears trickling down his cheeks and hides his face in his pillow. He doesn't want them to think that he is a baby.
"Malcolm." He is lifted off the bed and feels the woman's arms wrap around him as she holds him in her lap. Still clutching his pillow, Malcolm leans against her and allows the tears to fall. He can't help it. "You haven't been bad. Your father was very drunk when we found him, so drunk that he had to go to the hospital. He's not angry with you. He was very upset when he woke up and realized that he had left you on your own for so long."
Malcolm closes his eyes. The policewoman's uniform scratches against his cheek, but she feels warm and smells of lady's shampoo and he wishes she would go on holding him forever and ever. He is so tired.
"You think we should take him to a doctor?" he hears the policeman ask. "He doesn't look so good."
"Yes, maybe we'd better," the woman says, and Malcolm doesn't dare to say that he doesn't want to go. Those two are, after all, police officers, and it doesn't seem like a good idea to answer back and maybe get locked up in prison.
"Dave, why don't you call the hospital that we've found him," the policewoman continues. "I'll take care of him."
Malcolm sees the policeman take out his mobile and leave the room. Mrs. Stanley pulls out a tissue, wiping her eyes.
"Is there anything I can do?" she asks.
"Well," the policewoman says, " if you could pack up some of Malcolm's clothes and things, it would be a big help. And maybe find something else for him to wear, as well."
Mrs. Stanley nods and follows the policeman out into the hall, disappearing in Malcolm's bedroom. Malcolm knows that the policewoman has noticed his wet trousers, and he feels ashamed. He's not a baby, hasn't wet himself for years. He wants to tell her so, but his throat feels so tight and he can't speak. The policewoman doesn't seem to mind, though; she continues holding him, stroking his hair from time to time. Malcolm feels his eyes drifting closed.
After a while Mrs. Stanley and the policeman come back, Mrs. Stanley carrying a cotton bag in one hand and a pair of Malcolm's trousers in the other. When she begins to take off his old trousers, however, he shakes his head, slides off the policewoman's lap and walks on shaky legs to the door, dragging his pillow and the clean trousers along. He can change himself, doesn't need their help. He's not a baby. Closing the bathroom door behind himself, he hears the police officers and Mrs. Stanley chuckle softly, although he has no idea what they would be laughing about. They wouldn't want to undress in front of people they hardly know.
When he comes back out of the bathroom, the dizzy feeling has returned and all he wants to do is go back to bed. The policewoman is waiting outside in the hall and says something as he walks by, but he doesn't catch the words, his ears buzzing with dizziness. He knows that he isn't being polite, that he should show them to the door and say goodbye, but he feels far too tired to do so. He climbs back into Father's bed, moving away from the wet spot and hugging his pillow. Now that he knows that Father isn't angry with him, things are going to be alright.
"Malcolm!"
The policewoman is back. Malcolm turns his head to look at her.
"I'm sorry, Malcolm, but you can't stay here."
He frowns. Can't stay here? "Why not?"
She sighs a little. "Malcolm, we can't leave you here. You'll have to come with us."
He opens his mouth to tell her that he's going to be alright, he can take care of himself. The policewoman, however, doesn't seem inclined to listen. She picks him up, gently pulling the pillow from his grip and laying it down on the bed.
"It's okay, Malcolm, you're-"
"No!" He doesn't know where the scream came from, or the tears that suddenly fill his eyes. Struggling in her arms, he tries to get free. "No, put me down, I'm not going with you, I need to wait for Father..."
But she doesn't let go and walks to the door, holding him firmly in her arms. Malcolm sees his pillow on the bed and wants to tell her that he needs it, can't go without it, it's his lucky charm, but all that comes out are hoarse, desperate sobs. She closes the door and the pillow disappears from sight. That is when Malcolm realizes that they are really going to do it, that they are going to take him away, and he cries and cries, not listening to anything they say, only knowing that from now on, things are never going to be alright, never ever...
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The light was back, blinding and disorienting. He closed his eyes again, knowing that this time, he wouldn't be returning to the world of his nightmare. The dream was always the same, it never changed. And he knew it so well. Every time he dreamed it, it was the same terror, the same fear and despair. As if those feelings were buried somewhere deep inside him, waiting to be dragged to the surface every time he returned to that empty apartment in his sleep. And he never woke up before the dream was over. Try as he may, the dream needed to be dreamed to its end, and it wouldn't allow him to return to the living world before he hadn't experienced every single moment to its very end.
He lay still and listened to himself breathing. His body felt heavy, as if it were only a lifeless appendage, packed in layers of soft fabric to keep it warm. There was no pain, which, for some reason, surprised him. There should be pain, he should be writhing in agony, although he didn't remember exactly why that should be so. He realized, however, that something had happened. Something that must have taken the pain away.
Mindful of the bright light, he opened his eyes very slowly, half-expecting to find himself back in Father's bed, his pillow clutched tightly against his stomach. Instead of the shabby bedroom, however, he saw a clean, sterile-looking blanket, and a IV tube snaking its way down next to his head. Sickbay. He had been hurt and now he was in sickbay. That explained why there was no pain. Phlox must have given him something.
Malcolm let his eyes travel over his surroundings, taking in the white curtains around his bed and the steady flashing of the monitor next to his bed. Something was not quite right, looked not quite right, and he could almost remember what it was. Almost.
Images from the dream kept pushing their way to the surface, confusing his thoughts. He couldn't seem to concentrate, despite the feeling that something was definitely wrong...
Steps drew closer and a moment later someone pulled the curtain aside. Malcolm stared. An old Vulcan in a dark green uniform approached the bed, glancing briefly at the flashing monitor. Malcolm couldn't remember ever seeing that man before.
He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything the Vulcan turned around to look at him.
"Mr. Tucker? Can you hear me?"
Tucker. Trip. The shuttle. A Vulcan in a Joint Forces uniform. The pieces suddenly fit together, and Malcolm realized that this was not Enterprise's sickbay at all. The whole thing still didn't make a lot of sense, but at least he knew why he was here. He had been hurt, slammed against the shuttle deck by the force of the explosion. He could remember being hurled through the air, flames flickering behind him...
Malcolm cleared his throat. "Trip?" he asked, his sore throat protesting as he said the name. The Vulcan raised an eyebrow. "Mr. Tucker?"
Malcolm tried to nod, but found that he couldn't do so. Something was forcing him to keep his head perfectly still, leaving him no choice but to try and speak again.
"Where is he?"
The Vulcan regarded him for a long moment. "If you are referring to Lieutenant Reed, he is still in the brig. I-"
Again, the curtain was pushed aside, interrupting the Vulcan. A tall, brown-haired human in a Joint Forces uniform approached the bed, a phaser rifle slung over his shoulder. The Vulcan frowned.
"Is there something I can help you with, Corporal?"
The man ignored him and stepped closer to the bed, pulling out a pair of restraints. He took hold of Malcolm's right wrist, but the Vulcan intervened before he could do anything else.
"What is the purpose of this, Corporal?" he asked. His mouth had become a thin, hard line. "The man is injured and confused. He is no threat to anyone."
The Corporal shrugged, fitting the cuff around Malcolm's wrist and securing it on the bedrail. "Captain's orders. The prisoner is to be kept in restraints when he's awake. Sorry, doc."
He picked up Malcolm's other arm, and Malcolm couldn't suppress a cry of pain. The arm was swathed in bandages, and even the slight pressure of the Corporal's fingers was enough to cause searing agony.
"Let him go at once!"
At the Vulcan's cutting tone, the man let go, though not without an annoyed look at the old doctor. "Doctor, Captain Patricks said-"
"I do not care what the Captain said!" the Vulcan said, his eyes glittering dangerously. "You will do no further harm to my patient, or I will see to it that an entry is made into your personal file for inexcusable ineptitude! I suggest you leave at once, before I forget that I am not allowed to use my anaesthetic sprays for anything other than medical purposes!"
The Corporal took a hasty step back, stuffing the second handcuff back into his pocket. "Keep your shirt on, I was only following my orders! I didn't mean to hurt him."
"For your information, Corporal, gripping someone's broken arm hardly ever fails to result in severe pain. Now, as the Captain would put it, I want you out of here, now!"
The Corporal retreated, muttering quietly to himself as he closed the curtain. Malcolm forced himself to take slow, even breaths as the pain in his arm began to subside. The Vulcan turned back to him.
"Please forgive me for not introducing myself before," he said, as calmly as though he had never threatened the Corporal to knock him out with a hypospray only a minute ago. "I am Dr. Skitra. You are on the Joint Forces vessel Wildfire. I apologize for this-" he nodded at the handcuff that secured Malcolm's right wrist to the bedrail. "Security protocol can be somewhat rigid at times."
Malcolm frowned, trying to digest what the doctor was telling him. So he was a prisoner of the Joint Forces. In a way, it made sense, correlated with his memories of how he had gotten injured. But there was still something fundamentally wrong.
He closed his eyes for a moment, gathering all his strength for another attempt at communication. "Where's Tucker, doctor?"
Skitra watched him concernedly. "You are in sickbay. Do not worry, no one is going to harm you. Try not to speak, you are suffering from a rather severe concussion."
Malcolm stared at him, trying to understand why the doctor wouldn't answer his question about Trip, seemingly evading him on purpose. And there had been that remark about Lieutenant Reed being in the brig that had made absolutely no sense at all.
Like the little boy in his nightmare, Malcolm couldn't seem to understand what was going on around him. But it couldn't be that he was still dreaming, could it? No, all of this felt far too real to be a dream.
He opened his mouth once again when a voice from outside the curtain interrupted him.
"You got a moment, doc?"
Skitra glanced back over his shoulder. "I will be with you in a minute, Captain."
He straightened Malcolm's blanket and briefly checked the readings on the bio monitor. "Try to get some rest, Mr. Tucker. I will be back later to check on you."
With that, the Vulcan disappeared through the curtain, leaving Malcolm to stare after him.
I don't think we're in Kansas anymore.
Why the old doctor would call him "Mr. Tucker" was beyond him, but Malcolm knew that he had heard him right. It had been "Get some rest, Mr. Tucker", and the only time the doctor had mentioned Malcolm's own name had been to tell him that "Lieutenant Reed" was in the brig.
Before Malcolm's weary mind could come up with an explanation, however, the sound of muffled voices caught his attention.
"... still rather confused." Skitra sounded worried. "He keeps referring to himself in the third person, asking where he is. I will have to sedate him if he doesn't become lucid in the next few hours. We cannot afford to upset him."
"Whatever you say." The Captain seemed slightly impatient. "Is he going to recover before we reach Earth? Singer wants him transferred to D-04 as soon as we enter orbit."
"Mr. Tucker will have returned to physical health when we reach our destination." The doctor's voice had taken on a resentful undertone. "As far as I can tell, that is. I would not advise sending him to a detention center without a thorough medical examination, however."
"Yeah, well, I don't think Command will be very interested, but I'm going to include your recommendation in my report." The Captain sighed. "Doctor, I'd like to talk to you about Lieutenant Reed."
"Yes?" For some reason, Skitra's voice grew even colder at the mention of the name. Malcolm held his breath and listened.
"It's just that..." The Captain hesitated. "I can't really ask the security staff to take care of him. It's been well over a day, and he hasn't eaten anything. He... doesn't use the bathroom, either. I can't expect my men to..."
"I see." The doctor paused. "I cannot afford to have one of my nurses assigned to the brig for a full shift. We will need to transfer him to the IC unit."
"Doctor..."
"Captain." Again, Skitra's voice had a cutting edge to it that didn't invite argument. "I cannot take care of a patient when he is locked up in the brig. You can post an additional security detail in front of the door or install video cameras, but please do not interfere with my medical procedures. And I will not agree to keep Reed in restraints. In his current condition it would only agitate him and possibly lead to injuries." He paused briefly, continuing in a softer tone. "Captain, we had to give him the injection, but we do not need to treat him any worse than necessary."
"If you say so, doc. I'll have Crowther and his team take him up to sickbay."
"I'll need another hour to prepare the IC unit, Captain. And sir..."
"Yes?"
"I would appreciate it if Security did not mistreat the prisoners. Mr. Tucker is severely injured, and Lieutenant Reed no longer a competent adult. The crew should keep that in mind."
Again, the Captain sighed. "I'll talk to Crowther about it, doc, but you know how it is..."
"No, I do not." Skitra didn't seem willing to give in.
"I'll see what I can do." Malcolm could almost hear the shrug in the Captain's voice. "I'll tell Crowther to drop him off in about an hour. That alright with you?"
"Yes, Captain."
"Good. See you later, doc."
Skitra gave no answer, and a moment later Malcolm heard a door open and close. Realizing that he was still holding his breath, he slowly exhaled and closed his eyes. His heart was hammering in his chest, and his throat suddenly seemed far too tight.
Lieutenant Reed had indeed been taken to the brig. And as if that wasn't enough, Lieutenant Reed had also been given an injection. An injection that had turned him from a competent adult into someone who had to be taken to the IC unit so the doctor's nurses could take care of him. Yeah, Lieutenant Reed sure seemed to hog all the attention these days.
But we haven't even reached the punch line yet, the nasty voice in Malcolm's head continued. Wanna hear what's really funny about the whole thing? Want me to tell you, "Mister Tucker"?
Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut, as if it could drive away the images that suddenly rose before his mental eye. Trip, telling the Joint Forces Captain that he was the one they wanted. Making sure that Malcolm was safe, that he received the medical attention he needed. Trip in the brig, keeping his silence even as they injected him with the substance that would erase his mind. Trip sitting in his cell, staring blankly into nothingness...
Malcolm felt something warm trickle down his cheeks, letting it run since he couldn't raise a hand to wipe it off. Damn him to hell. Damn him straight to hell for doing this, for saving the life of someone who certainly wasn't worth it.
It's my duty to serve and protect, Trip had said when he had saved Malcolm's life the first time, lying to the Kareedian police about running away. Serve and protect. So that was it as far as he was concerned? His duty to serve and protect, and his own life mattered nothing? Or, goddammit, the lives of the children he was leaving behind?
He noticed that he was trembling all over. For a brief moment, Malcolm wanted to shout out loud, tell them that he was Lieutenant Reed, that he should be the one in the brig, the one who was no longer a competent adult.
But no sound came out except for a congested noise that might have been a sob. He kept his silence just like Trip had, staring at the white curtains until they were nothing but blurred shapes in front of his eyes and wishing he had died when he hit the shuttle deck. If his injuries had killed him right then and there, there would have been no reason for Trip to protect him. No reason to throw away his own life.
Malcolm lay there for what seemed like hours, and when Skitra came back he didn't react to anything the doctor said. He knew that the doctor was going to knock him out if he didn't respond, that the nightmare was going to repeat itself, stirred up by the drugs, but he didn't care. Maybe that was what he deserved, reliving the horrors of his past again and again while Trip was living through the horrors of the present.
Feeling the cold touch of the hypospray against his neck, Malcolm experienced a strange moment of satisfaction. He could already feel the nightmare tugging at the edges of his mind, and this time he wanted to give in to it, go back to the place where he had been more frightened than ever again in his life.
It was, it seemed, the only place where he had a right to be.
TBC...
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