A/N: I am so, so sorry for taking so long to update. There is no excuse. A hundred thanks to Daniela Mosetti Casaretto for encouraging me to update. So here it is! Just enjoy... things are getting very angsty now!

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"Mine eyes are made the fools o'the other senses..." – William Shakespeare, 'That Scottish Play'

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Chapter Seven

They were running out of air. It was a thought that did not please An'Din one bit. Not just because it would be an extremely unpleasant way to die, but also because it seemed slightly clichéd.

He'd never thought it would end like this. An'Din was rarely given to fatalistic musings, but when he did think about it the image he had always held was of his death being at the hand of an enemy, in a blazing rush of light.

He'd never thought he'd die on the run from his own people. He'd never thought he'd die side by side with an alien who was a traitor to his own people. He'd never thought he'd die because he'd tried to save a man who was his enemy. He'd never thought…

There are a lot of things we never think of, aren't there?

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After the incident with Hayes in the gym, sleep was the last thing on Malcolm Reed's mind. He was at the end of his tether – tired, scared, frustrated and careworn. He just wished, for one moment, he could make it all go away.

And so he gave into a temptation that had been nagging at him for the past week. It involved a certain secret stash hidden at the bottom of his cupboard – he had no qualms with breaking the regulations in that case, ever officer he'd met in the navy had one – and the rather large bottle of scotch it contained.

Malcolm stared at the amber liquid for a moment and a little voice in his head told him that this was cowardice of the worst kind – he was forgetting his troubles, and was too lazy to even run from them. This voice was uncannily similar to that of his father's.

But he shook the voice – which for once held some wisdom – away as, with a grimace, he downed the glass. As he refilled it, his hands shaking slightly now, he reflected that he really would have preferred rum. It was the only naval habit his father had ever truly managed to instill in him. Then, in a sudden morbid fancy, he lifted his glass -full once more -to the absent man.

"To you, Father… may your precious navy rust at the bottom of the ocean." And with a bitter expression on his face, he drank to his own pledge. Having emptied his second glass of scotch he promptly filled his third.

And so Malcolm Reed proceeded to get quietly and ingloriously drunk.

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An'Din gritted his teeth as he once again attempted to refine the navigation controls and once again received nothing but a sharp shock of electricity for his troubles.

"Having trouble?" Ishran's ingratiating voice spoke from above him. An'Din glanced sharply up and grimaced at the Betazoid.

"Yes." He said, his eyes darkening. "Since you asked." At this Ishran glanced out of the pod's bubble of a window and frowning, said absent-mindedly;

"Well, I didn't really need to ask, but I thought it was polite to." An'Din jerked up in anger at this.

"You mean, more polite than reading my thoughts?" He asked heatedly, and Ishran glanced back at him in surprise.

"No… your thoughts and feelings were written clearly enough upon your face." At this, An'Din simply rolled his eyes and pulled himself up from below the console. He glanced out at the starfield, which was void of anything but… well, stars.

"Anything?" An'Din asked, not quite daring to hope. Ishran frowned, then shook his head in frustration.

"It is… strange. I could have sworn…" But An'Din had no time for 'could have's'. He leapt from his seat and grabbed the alien around his scrawny neck.

"Listen, you wretched creature," he growled, "can you find the human or not?" His theory in taking Ishran with him was that the Betazoid, having experienced such a strong telepathic link with the human, would be able to lead them to him. According to Ishran, it had been a good theory… but not so good in practice.

"I do not know!" Ishran burst out, his eyes beginning to bulge slightly. "Please, let me go!" An'Din stepped back, and folded his arms. "Thankyou." The Betazoid gasped, rubbing his neck and gulping in deep mouthfuls of air. He turned back to the window and shook his head in frustration. "I… cannot explain it… the link is… wavering." He paused. "I have never experienced anything like this before." He admitted eventually.

An'Din nodded silently, carefully surveying the man before him. Somehow, a change had seemed to come over him since the… incident with the human. An'Din could not explain it. The man had grown a backbone… and a conscience.

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Back on Enterprise, Malcolm Reed was becoming slowly but wonderfully drunk. As he went to pour his fifth glass he realised that that the bottle was empty. He peered into the murky depths of the glass bottle, and giggled.

"That's funny." He said, half to himself and half to the shadows who haunted his dreams. He wasn't scared anymore, just tired, oh so tired...

He glanced over at his bedside cabinet, and a thought began to grow within him. His personal phase pistol was hidden in the top drawer, and it would be quick, very quick...

Coward. His father's voice hissed at him, but he was no longer listening. He stumbled across the room and pulled the drawer open. Gently, as though he were holding his first-born son, he lifted the phase pistol out.

"It isn't that bad a thing to do, surely?" He whispered to himself. "When people want to go to sleep but can't, they take a sleeping pill... surely this is no different?" Tears were running down his cheeks, but he paid them no heed. Slowly, his breathing low and shallow, he lifted the phase pistol to his head.

He closed his eyes. His finger tightened around the trigger...

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Trip was up on the bridge pulling the night shift, having promised to as a favour to the night team commander, Lieutenant Hecat. He was glad for the opportunity to see some new faces: Hoshi recently had been withdrawn and not really a lot of fun, and the same could be said for Travis. Not that it was their fault – the entire Alpha shift crew had been feeling the effects of Malcolm's... condition.

Trip couldn't understand it. He had thought that Malcolm would get better, once he was up and working with the people who cared about him most. But he had pulled away, pulled away from everyone, and when Malcolm had thought he wasn't looking Trip had seen despair in those blue eyes. And it was a feeling Trip was beginning to share, despair, despair that he could do nothing to help the man, his best friend. The only person who could make Malcolm get better was Malcolm himself...

But still, Trip thought bitterly, perhaps having the head of the man who had done this thing to Malcolm would make everyone feel a whole lot better... himself included.

But the death penalty was sadly against Earth laws...

"Sir!" A voice of alarm broke through his thoughts. He looked up sharply to see Crewman Seyton, the night shift communications officer, staring down at his read-outs and looking panicky. Trip strode over to him, glancing at the screen. "Sir," the poor man said, "there's been an unauthorised energy burst, it looks like it's from a phase pistol, on C deck, crew quarters..."

Trip swallowed: his mouth was suddenly feeling very dry.

"Who's quarters?" He asked, but in his heart he already knew the answer. Crewman Seyton tapped his controls, and a grey look came over his young face.

"Lieutenant Reed's..."

But Trip was already out of the door.

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A/N: What a nasty cliffhanger! (slaps wrist) Anyway, please tell me what you think, my long-suffering readers!