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"It could have been much worse," Phlox said as he approached Archer and Tucker, who were waiting just outside sickbay. T'Pol had been sent back to the armoury to investigate the cause of the explosion.

"He suffered burns on his hands and arms, and numerous lacerations to his upper body, where pieces of metal became embedded," the doctor explained. "A couple of them came close to causing serious injuries. And he has a concussion. All in all he was very lucky."

"Is he awake?" Archer asked.

"Sort of," Phlox answered. Anticipating the captain's question, he added, "You may see him for a few minutes, Captain, but keep in mind that he will be confused. In addition to his concussion, he has a fair amount of painkiller in his bloodstream."

"Thank you, Doctor," Archer replied quietly, feeling very relieved. He turned to Trip, who still looked quite shaken. "I'd better go alone." Tucker acknowledged with a nod.

Archer followed Phlox inside sickbay, to a biobed behind a privacy curtain. Reed lay there with his eyes closed. His hands and arms, up to the elbows, were heavily bandaged. As was his torso, from what Archer could see of it. IV tubes snaked out of one arm, and a couple of bluish bruises discoloured his face. Archer put a hand lightly on his shoulder and saw the lieutenant's eyes crack open. After a moment they became focussed and a small frown creased Reed's brow.

"Lieutenant," Archer said softly, without humour. "You've got to stop giving me heart attacks."

Reed frowned a little more, then appeared to slowly realise whom he was staring at. "Captain," he croaked out. After a moment he weakly asked, "Bad?"

"Nothing that Phlox couldn't fix. But I'm afraid you've booked yourself a stay in sickbay," Archer said gravely.

There was a pause as Reed seemed to think the words over. "Damage," he then murmured. "How bad?"

Archer suddenly realised what Reed was talking about. "Oh, you mean the armoury." He heaved a deep breath. I should have known, he mulled. "Let's just say Trip and his team will have their hands full," he said trying to keep any inflection of reproach out of his voice.

"Sorry," the lieutenant whispered, closing his eyes again. "Don't know how… cleaning a pistol…" his voice died away.

"Don't worry about anything now, just rest. We'll figure out what happened," Archer said removing his hand from Reed's shoulder. Phlox had appeared again and the Captain knew what that meant: time to leave the patient alone.

"It appears Lieutenant Reed was cleaning a phase pistol when it exploded," T'Pol said, standing with her arms behind her back in Archer's ready room.

"Yes, but Malcolm has already told me this," the Captain replied in a slightly frustrated tone. "What I want to know is why the weapon exploded. Was it something Reed did wrong?"

"I believe only the Lieutenant can answer that question, Captain," T'Pol commented, raising her eyebrows. "There just isn't enough of the weapon left to make any suppositions."

"And what on earth was he doing in the armoury that late?" Archer wondered aloud.

"Lieutenant Reed dismissed Ensign Müller half an hour earlier, saying that he would guard the armoury until Ensign Jonas came on duty. That was approximately at twenty-one-hundred hours," T'Pol reported.

The bell rang. "Come in," Archer called, and the door swished open to reveal a dishevelled Trip Tucker.

"The damage is less than it seemed at first," the engineer said, reading the question in Archer's eyes. "Still, it'll keep my team busy for at least a day. The good news is that tactical systems are all online. If you ask me, I think Malcolm realised what was going to happen and did his best to minimise the damage."

Archer heaved a sigh of relief and leaned back in his chair. His armoury officer was still alive and things looked better than he had anticipated. "At least some good news," he commented.

"Capt'n, is that all?" Trip enquired tiredly. "I'd like to pass by sickbay, before I get some shuteye."

"That will be all. But don't stay too long, it's late and you look in dire need of a good rest. And I already have one senior officer out of action," the Captain warned him.

"No need to worry, Capt'n," Trip replied with a grin, "I'm sure Phlox will boot me out after just a few minutes."

Trip drew the curtain gently, trying not to make any noise. Malcolm appeared to be asleep, his face turned slightly away from him. His breathing was somewhat faster than normal and his face looked a little flushed. Phlox had told him that the lieutenant had developed a fever, but it was only to be expected.

The medic sitting in the chair beside the bed got up and, after a quick check of the monitors, nodded to the Commander and left. Trip quietly took his place. He had been there for a few minutes studying the drawn features of his friend when he saw him stir. A low groan escaped from Reed's throat and his eyes slowly opened. He made to raise a hand to shield them from the light but the movement stopped in mid air when his gaze fell on the heavily bandaged limb. He looked at it for a moment as if in surprise; then let it fall slowly to his side.

"Malcolm?" Trip called softly as he lowered the lights a little.

Malcolm turned his head to face him. It took him a moment to find words. "Been here long?" he slurred.

"No, just a few minutes. How're you feeling?" Trip asked.

Malcolm seemed to give serious thought to the relatively easy and predictable question. After another moment he answered, "Not feeling much. Painkillers…" He closed his eyes again and frowned. "Bit confused."

"You've got a concussion." Trip bit his lip. "Do you remember what happened?" he asked, unable to keep the words inside. He badly wanted to know.

He saw Malcolm's frown deepen. Then, with an effort, the lieutenant opened his eyes again, but although he was looking straight at him it was as if he were transparent. For a few moments the silence was broken only by Reed's quick breathing. "Cleaning a pistol…" Malcolm then mumbled. "Done it so many times..." He brought a bandaged hand to his forehead. "Something was wrong… someone…" Reed's words died in his throat as he shook his head slightly.

"Was there someone else in the armoury?" Trip asked with a hint of concern. They hadn't picked up any traces of transports, but out there in space the strangest things were known to happen.

Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut and his breathing became even more ragged. "Don't know… No…"

"Don't worry about it now," Trip hastened to say, seeing his friend getting agitated. He put a hand on his shoulder. "Just rest. I'll come visit you tomorrow before my shift."

As he got up from the chair Malcolm mumbled, "Captain mad?" cracking his eyes open again.

"Ah, no," Trip reassured him. "You know him. He's just relieved that you're gonna be all right. Everythin' else can be fixed." By the time he was ready to turn and leave Malcolm had already dozed off.

He was smiling. A sad smile, but a smile all the same. Standing there in a corner of sickbay, he was looking at him and smiling. Before, in the armoury, his eyes had been wide with terror, but now they were filled with melancholy.

"David, why are you here?" Malcolm asked in awe. "You shouldn't be," he said, more to himself than to the man.

But David would not speak. He would not move. He looked at him with those soft green eyes that had conquered many a girl, and smiled his sad smile.

Malcolm stared at him, transfixed. Then the image began to lose definition, like when someone disappears through a transporter; but slowly, ever so slowly. And David moved. He raised his arms and stretched them out to Malcolm. His smile grew wider and more nostalgic. "Good-bye," he finally said, clearly. His voice brought back a whirlpool of memories.

"Wait!" Malcolm cried out, "There is so much I need to tell you!"

"Good-bye," David repeated, his voice fainter, his image fainter, his smile fainter. Then he was gone.

"Easy, Lieutenant, easy," another voice urged, as strong hands held him down. Malcolm's eyes flew open and he found himself drenched in sweat and with his heart pounding. Phlox's concerned face was right there above him. He relaxed his body under the doctor's firm grip, and sank back, closing his eyes again.

"Nightmare," he mumbled. "I'm fine," he added, wanting to avoid more medication.

"Let me be the judge of that, hm?" Phlox replied. He scanned him thoroughly and checked the monitors. "You still have a temperature. That's probably what triggered your nightmare," he reasoned aloud. "I'll just give you a very light sedative to help you sleep," he concluded.

"Please, Doctor," Reed pleaded. "No need."

Phlox sighed. Reed had always been a difficult patient. "As you wish, Lieutenant. Since you have a concussion it's actually better if you can do without sedatives. I'll give you something to bring down your fever. And I don't want to hear another word of complaint from you," he warned.

Trip had stopped by sickbay in the morning, as promised, but Malcolm had been sound asleep. His fever was down, apparently, and his biosigns were getting stronger. The doctor would begin dermal regeneration on his hands and arms in the afternoon and warned the engineer not to show up until after his shift, for his patient needed to rest as much as possible.

So Tucker had spent the whole day in the armoury, at the head of the engineering team that was fixing things up. Although only Malcolm could shed light on the mystery of what had actually happened there the night before, it was clear that the pistol had exploded inside a cabinet, destroying it completely.

Trip had taken a shower and changed. His mind kept going back to Malcolm's words. The lieutenant seemed to think someone else had been in the armoury. But no traces had been found of any other presence in the room. Maybe he's just confused, he mulled. I still have to ask him why he came to my quarters last night, Trip thought, instantly feeling remorse tug at his conscience again. Despite T'Pol's logic and Archer's comforting words, he felt certain his turning him down had something to do with the accident, and was almost afraid to find out.

The engineer left his quarters and headed for sickbay. When he got there he found Phlox busy feeding his menagerie.

"Commander," the doctor greeted him. "I was wondering when you would show up."

"How is your patient, Doc?" Trip asked with a tired smile.

"Impatient. Which, in Mr. Reed's case, actually means better. The Lieutenant is surprisingly resilient, I must say. I suspect he is able to accelerate his body's healing processes by sheer willpower, just to get out of sickbay as soon as possible," the doctor answered with a soft chuckle. "He is still in bed, but his fever is down and his injuries have started to heal," Phlox added, but his voice did not hold the enthusiasm that would generally be there when relaying such good news.

"So… what's wrong?" Trip asked, puzzled. "His concussion…?"

Phlox shook his large head. "No, he's fine, at least from a physical point of view - he will be, that is. But… he seems distant, troubled."

"May I talk to him?" Trip asked. "It might help."

"Go ahead. But please don't stay too long," Phlox reminded him.

Tucker went up to the privacy curtain and let himself in. Malcolm turned to him instantly and the hint of a smile appeared on his face. His features were still drawn but he looked more aware.

"You're looking better," Trip said.

"I'm feeling better," Malcolm answered.

"You'll be happy to know that your armoury is almost back to normal, compliments of yours truly," Trip said.

Reed heaved a tormented sigh. "I've messed up, Trip" he commented in a low voice. "The Captain ought to throw me in the brig." He tried to turn on his side but gave up with a grimace.

"D'you want me to raise the back of your bed?" Trip asked.

"That'd be nice, thank you," Malcolm replied. "Can't wait till I'm back in my quarters," he added with a lopsided smirk that held no humour.

Tucker adjusted the biobed. "That will be soon enough, I predict," he said with a soft chuckle. Then he turned serious and asked, "Have you remembered what happened?"

Malcolm lowered his gaze. "I was cleaning a phase pistol," he murmured. "But my mind was… not on the job."

"That's not like you, Malcolm," Trip said with a frown. But Reed continued as if he hadn't heard him at all.

"I can do that blindfolded. With my hands behind my back. Standing on my head," he said with conviction. "I had almost finished when…" Malcolm's words faltered and Trip saw him close his eyes for a brief moment against the memory.

"When?" he prompted softly.

"I… I noticed the pistol getting hot." Reed swallowed. "I think I inadvertently switched it on, but that doesn't normally make the weapon get hot. I don't know how that could've happened. That I switched it on, I mean. I switched it off, but the pistol was still overheating. I began to take the weapon apart. Quickly. It was getting hotter and hotter. Bloody fast too. My hands were getting burnt and my movements became clumsy."

Malcolm was looking at Trip with narrowed eyes, as if trying to make sense of his confused memories. "Something was wrong with the damn thing and I couldn't figure out what. I realised time was running short, that the pistol was going to blow up any moment, so I picked it up, ran to the far side of the armoury, shoved it inside a reinforced cabinet, and… well, just as I was closing the door the weapon went off and I was sent flying," Malcolm concluded in a low voice.

Silence fell between them.

Trip hesitated a moment, then decided to ask the loaded question. "Do you think… you might have done something wrong with the pistol while you were cleanin' it?" he enquired.

Reed thought long before answering. He raised haunted eyes to Trip's. "I don't know. I… just don't see how. Cleaning a pistol is quite a straightforward procedure. And when it was overheating and I began to disassemble it again, I still couldn't find what was wrong."

Malcolm now looked drained. Trip decided the conversation had been long enough and was about to get up when the lieutenant stopped him, adding feebly but with determination, "One of the components was acting up. I know it. But I can't prove it." He gave a weak, humourless laugh. "The blast technically should have killed me, and that alone means something was faulty with the bloody weapon. The truth is… I was distracted and although I am certain I can take apart and put together a phase pistol even in my sleep, I can't swear I didn't do anything wrong," he concluded in a voice that held a note of despair.

Trip felt a cold knot form in his gut. He turned the next question in his mind a couple of times, wondering if this was the right time to ask it. But he just couldn't postpone it any longer for his own sake as much as for Malcolm's. He put a hand on his friend's arm and went ahead. "Malcolm, when you came to my quarters last night, what did you want to tell me?"

Malcolm turned his face away and shut his eyes tightly. After a moment he replied, "Trip, please, I'm exhausted. Do you mind if we talk about this another time? I just… can't now."

"Sure," Trip agreed hesitantly. Then he added, weighing his words, "I only wanted to say I'm sorry if I let you down. I feel you needed me to be there for you and I went the other way."

Malcolm turned to face him again and his eyes held no reproach but, rather, confusion. He shook his head and murmured, "No, if I had asked you, you would have stayed. I know that, and you do too. It was I who went the other way."

Trip saw his friend's eyelids droop and then fall shut, and got up to leave, still feeling quite worried about his friend.

TBC