A/N: Ok… firstly, I am really sorry for taking so long. I have probably re-written this chapter at least six times, but I think I've got the best version of it. I am also very sorry for the slightly wacky paragraphing… I think my computer is trying to sabotage my work! And, of course, to my reviewers:
Reedie: Thanks! Did I really make you cry? Gosh…
Anyway, you're right: I won't give Malcolm a HEAP of problems… maybe just one or two… poor guy. *hugs Malcolm and apologises for everything he's being put through*.
Gabi: Thanks… I'm not particularly fond of deathfics either… they seem so final, which is what I'm trying not to do with this story. Yes, the crew are going to start to "perceive" that Malcolm is still with them , in a way… though I won't say too much, I don't want to spoil it for you!
KaliedescopeCat: Um… thanks. The other spirit character WAS going to be someone completely different than what you suggested, but since reading your review… well, let's just say, if there's anything my reviewers say they'd like to see, I can't resist but add it in…
Interested Reviewer: Thanks. The poem is called (I think), "Do not stand by my grave and weep". No one is exactly sure who it's by… quite a few people have laid their claims to it… it's quite a famous poem… just type it into Google search engine and it will come straight up.
Amy Rose: Thanks! The bit where he was between the mortal and the immortal world was really just my take on the book, The Wish List, by Eoin Colfer… but I did make up some of that bit myself. As to Malcolm leaving the poem and the messages, my idea whilst writing it was that he always had them, ready, on his desk, in case something unexpected did happen to him – that he was prepared to die, not only in that instance, but at any time, during any away mission. It's just the feeling I get watching certain episodes, like Minefield or Shuttlepod One.
Summary: The crew believe Malcolm to be dead, and everyone, even T'Pol, are feeling the effects. However, Malcolm is not as dead as they would believe, but is too lost in his own grief to try and reach the mortal world again…
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Chapter Four
Charles Tucker stared, lost in thought, out of the long windows in the mess hall, and at the stars flashing by. He avoided looking at the empty seat beside him. This was his table, his and Malcolm's. They always sat here together, for breakfast, for lunch, for dinner, or for a rejuvenating coffee if both of them were working late. It felt strange to think that they would never again sit at the table, talking quietly into the late hours of the night, or simply sitting in silence enjoying one another's company. It felt strange to realise that he would never again hear that calm, cultured voice, or see the bright twinkle in those calm grey eyes. It hurt to know that Malcolm Reed was gone forever.
*
But what Trip didn't know was that his friend was right next to him still, a concerned expression on his face. Malcolm Reed was sitting right next to him, even though it was just in spirit. Well, isn't this one merry little party. Malcolm thought sourly to himself. There had been no wake, no celebration at all, after his "funeral". Just quiet groups of people walking away mournfully, shell shocked. Malcolm groaned in frustration as he stared at his friend. He wished he could do something, anything to help relieve his friend's pain. He reached out a hand to touch his friend's shoulder, not caring if it drained him of energy, not caring if it hurt him, all he cared about was comforting Trip… and then his entire world was flipped upside down.
*
Malcolm gasped subconsciously as he fought with a wave of suppressed memories which were not his… he could see himself, out of Trip's eyes, during their time trapped in the shuttlepod together, heard how pessimistic and miserable he sounded… What's happening? Where am I? His mind asked, but in his soul he already knew the answer. He was with Trip, seeing the world through Trip's eyes… he was with his friend, not in body but in spirit. Slowly at first, then more urgently, he began to try and communicate.
*
Trip shuddered suddenly, and stared wildly around the mess hall. He suddenly didn't feel very well at all – unbidden memories which had been locked in a dark corner of his mind suddenly began to wash over him, like an unstoppable tsunami of fear and grief. Then, it stopped. He felt calm, at peace with himself for the first time in days. There now. A voice in his head which did not belong to him spoke soothingly. It wasn't your fault, Trip. The voice said, and Trip realised with a jolt of realisation who the voice belonged to.
"Malcolm?" He muttered incredulously, and he suddenly felt an odd desire to chuckle. I'm going mad. Trip shook his head. No, you're not. The voice which sounded like Malcolm assured him stonily. Trip shivered, and stared again around the room. Around him, people were laughing, joking, getting on with their lives. But he was stuck with this… this echo of his friend, produced, he assumed, by his exhausted and grief-worn mind. I'm not an echo, Trip. I'm really here, with you! The voice told him, exasperated. But Trip shook his head feverishly.
"I won't listen to you, you're not real. Go away." He muttered to himself, not caring what people would think about the chief engineer sitting at a table on his own and talking angrily to himself. "Go away." He hissed once again, and sighed with relief as the voice left him once and for all.
*
Malcolm Reed "sighed" with sadness as he left his friend's mind. Trip hadn't believed him. He felt lonely, abandoned. Was he cursed now to remain as mere spirit, watching in agony as his friend's grieved, accepted, and then finally got on with their lives? It was a torture of the worst kind. Oh, Cathy, what would you do now? He thought sadly, remembering the way his love had been able to solve almost every problem, the way she had always seemed to make everything look ten times better than they actually were. When Malcolm had been with her, everything was right with the world. And then you went and died on me. He thought bitterly. He could still remember, that day, when a stony-faced Starfleet official had come and torn apart his very existence…
*
"Hey, you'd better get that, Malcolm." James Jameson - Malcolm's best friend and brother-in law - grinned at him. Malcolm rolled his eyes and reluctantly pushed himself from the comforting depths of the couch."Lazy little so and so." He muttered, throwing his friend an amused glance. James shrugged, grinning.
"It'll be for you, anyway. It's your flat, as you keep reminding me." Malcolm shot him a glare – James had been bunking at his flat for weeks, ever since Malcolm's wife, James' sister, had gone off on an assignment.
"Yes. And don't you forget it!" And with that, he left the room. James grinned at his friend's receding back, and stretched luxuriously. He was one of the few people who could dare to tease Malcolm – he knew that Malcolm would never throw him out, because Malcolm wasn't that sort of person. James frowned slightly as he heard Malcolm open the door, and hushed, grave voices speaking. James stood up hesitantly, and poked his head around the doorway. Three Starfleet officials were standing there, talking to Malcolm.
"The Sovereign…" They were saying, "…major warp breach… nothing anyone could have done." And there was nothing for James to do now, except hold his friend through the pain, and pray that someday he would find again the peace and love which had just been so cruelly torn from him.
- *
- Stuart Reed stood under the weeping willow tree, breathing in deep the moisture-laden air, staring up at the stars which had claimed his only son. It would be monsoon season soon, and the world would soon be drowned in the rain. Stuart loved Malaysia, loved the gentle beauty of it all, but he still loved England better. He had been born there, had grown up there, had met his first love there. For him, there was nothing more beautiful than the rugged hillsides of the countryside, and nothing more refreshing than to sink into an ice-cold river, with shady trees overhead to grip onto if the currents became to strong. No sound was lovelier to him than the gentle, tuneless whistles of the native birds in the morning. Stuart Reed would have gladly tolerated a thousand days of storms and blustery rainfalls just to have but one more day walking the hills in the gentle sun. But he had had to move to Malaysia for medical reasons – and he now realised just how much he had become a prisoner to his own failings, both physical and emotional.
- "Dad?" A quiet voice startled him from his reverie. He turned, a small smile on his face.
- "Madeline." He nodded, as he took in his daughter's dishevelled appearance. She was in her nightclothes. "Couldn't sleep either?" Madeline shook her head silently, and Stuart sighed. "Come here." He said gently, offering out his hand. His daughter took it, hesitantly, and he pulled her towards him. They stood like that for several moments before Stuart pulled away from the embrace, awkward. "It will get better." He said, looking deep into her grey eyes, so much like her brother's, which were filled with pain.
- "Really, Dad?" She asked, and he nodded, grasping her shoulders.
- "Yes. I promise." And he held her close.
- *
- Doctor Phlox was quite confused. He had never been particularly fond of Lieutenant Reed, and so was at a complete loss now, when the man's death was affecting him so. But then again, perhaps he was suffering from what humans called "guilt" – guilt, at his inability to save the man, even though he had been beyond help.
- Phlox had never got to know Malcolm very well, but he had a niggling feeling that the Brit would have been very disapproving of the oh-so-sombre mood which had encapsulated the ship of late. Phlox didn't approve of it either – it was bad for the health of crew morale for everyone to be acting so… morbid.
- And it was Phlox's duty, as chief medical officer, to remedy that situation. And so it was with a warm smile that he greeted the next person to enter his sickbay. That person just happened to be Subcommander T'Pol.
- "Subcommander." He gave her a nod full of a cheeriness that he didn't quite feel.
- "What can I do for you?" The Vulcan science officer stood, looking slightly awkward, on the threshold of the doors for a moment, her long, tapering fingers gripping the PADD in her hand slightly harder than was necessary. "Subcommander?" He repeated, more concerned this time. "Is anything the matter?" T'Pol hesitated slightly before answering.
- "Yes." Phlox frowned.
- "Is it the Pa'nar Syndrome? Is it getting worse?" T'Pol shot him a sharp look, and Phlox would have sworn that, for a moment, he could see pain and fear in her eyes.
- But the next moment, she was back to normal, and Phlox was sure it had been a mistake. After all, she was a Vulcan. They didn't express emotions. Unless…
- "I have been feeling extremely… emotional, lately." T'Pol said bluntly. "I have been finding it harder to repress my emotions. I believe it is signs of further… deterioration." Phlox frowned, and indicated that she sit on the bio-bed next to her. She did so with infinite grace, not a trace of emotion upon her face. Phlox selected a bio-scanner from his tray of Starfleet medical tools and began to scan, a frown upon his face as he did so. When finished, he shook his head gravely.
- "This is not Pa'nar Syndrome, T'Pol." He said heavily, and T'Pol shot him a puzzled look – well, as puzzled as a Vulcan could look, anyway.
- "It – it is not?" There could be no mistaking it this time, for her voice was heavy with emotion. Phlox shook his head, unsure whether to laugh or cry. He was glad that T'Pol was not deteriorating further, but the reason for her strange lack of control over her emotions was just as unfortunate, just as upsetting, as her rare strain of Pa'nar Syndrome.
- "It is not Pa'nar Syndrome, at least, not entirely." The Denobulan sighed heavily. "However, the disease has made you more… susceptible… to emotions – in other words, the crew are unwittingly projecting their feelings of grief over Lieutenant Reed's death onto you." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Of course, you may also be suffering from what human's call 'guilt'. I know that you weren't particularly close to the Lieutenant, but…" He trailed off, catching sight of the look on T'Pol's face. She pursed her lips, and Phlox had spent more than enough time with her to know that it meant she was angry, angry and upset. And perhaps a little defensive, too.
- "I must go, Doctor. Thankyou for your diagnosis. It was most… helpful." And with that, she swept from the room. Phlox sighed again. His enthusiasm for trying to improve crew morale was rapidly burning out.
- *
"Hey, sis!" Elanor rolled her eyes as her brother called to her from the door of the club. She raised an eyebrow, running a cursory eye over his clothes – loose, colourful – clearly her twin brother James' idea of "pulling" clothes.
"Going somewhere special?" She asked in a voice full of dry amusement as she neared the doorway. She drank in a deep breath of cool, refreshing air – like nectar from heaven after two hours in the smoky bar. James grinned, and glanced at the young man next to him. Elanor eyed the boy carefully – he was quite short, with wavy black hair and handsome grey eyes. Elanor had seen many young cadets before, including many who had been more attractive by far than the odd specimen before her, but… his eyes were filled with a delightful innocence and honesty that only youth could give. And goodness knew Elanor craved a little honesty.
"Well…" Her twin brother glanced at his feet, at least having the good grace to look mildly ashamed of himself. "Y'know how it is… Malcolm and I, we…" He trailed off awkwardly, but Elanor wasn't listening anyway. She was carefully studying the young man – "Malcolm", her brother had called him – who had gone distinctly red in the face upon being introduced. She smiled warmly at him, extending a hand.
"Hi, I'm Catherine – James' twin sister. You might have heard about me, though I doubt it – James generally tries to pretend he hasn't got a sister." She grinned at her brother, who flushed with indigence.
"As if I would!" he exclaimed, and the young man called Malcolm smiled, his eyes alight with amusement and a youthfulness which Elanor feared she no longer possessed herself. Elanor was, of course, the same age as her twin, but had begun her Starfleet training a year earlier. She had always been the more "mature" of the pair.
James turned to his sister once again, a more serious expression on his face. "They turned you down again, didn't they?" He asked her, his eyes and voice filled with concern. Elanor shrugged, trying to act nonchalant. Malcolm looked from one to the other with open bewilderment.
"Sorry – turned what down?" He asked, his brow furrowed in childlike concern. Elanor turned to him, her eyes sparkling with warmth, which, under the circumstances, was quite surprising. "I've recently been doing a bit of investigation into EM technology – I'm in my second year of tactical and weapons training – and I need a grant from Starfleet to continue my research. I've shown them my ideas and research at least a hundred times, but -" "They still keep turning down your requests." Malcolm finished for her, and she nodded gravely. "Exactly. This afternoon was the fifth time it's happened." "Ouch." Malcolm said with a sympathetic wince. "I'm doing that course as well." He added, almost as an afterthought. He eyed her with interest. "Perhaps you could show me your ideas some time?" Beside them, James groaned. "Look, if we're going to be discussing deadly boring stuff like this, can we at least get a table and a drink?" He asked, sounding like a sulky child. Elanor rolled her eyes at him."Well, I was just leaving, but…" She trailed off awkwardly. Malcolm was looking at her with those fascinating eyes of his.
"Stay." He said simply, before reiterating. "I'll buy you a drink?" Elanor hesitated, before smiling.
"Ok then." She replied, and Malcolm swiftly returned her smile, and it was a smile as warm and sincere as any. She headed towards a table and he graciously pulled up a seat for her. Elanor flushed, ignoring her brother's disgusted look.
"I'll get the drinks, shall I?" he asked, throwing them one last reproachful glare. Elanor grinned.
"Yeah, you do that." She turned to Malcolm, her eyes twinkling. "Silly old coot, our James is." Malcolm nodded politely.
"If – if you say so." Goodness, I'm not making him nervous, am I? Elanor thought with surprise, and a little pleasure. It had been a long time since any man had reacted in that way towards her – true, the men in her defence class were scared of her, but that was only because they knew she could kick their backsides from San Francisco to Australia if they annoyed her. "So." Malcolm said suddenly, breaking her reverie. "I hear you're something of a 'legend' among your classmates?" Elanor looked up sharply, scowling, but her expression soon softened when she saw the wide, cheerful grin on her companion's face.
"Yeah." She replied softly. "A bit." She studied Malcolm's face carefully. Her brother had, of course, spoken to her about his roommate, and had always described him as something of an optimist. She could see what her brother had meant – Malcolm's face shone with a naïve hopefulness, and his eyes told of a thousand plans, a thousand ambitions. "And you – I hear that you are something of a prodigy in the field?" He shrugged modestly, looking slightly embarrassed.
"It's all a load of exaggeration, I assure you." He told her firmly, in that odd accent of his. It was definitely British, but somehow… softer, with an almost musical lilt to it. Elanor smiled. She had never been one to believe in destiny, but, somehow, she felt that their meeting today had not been mere chance, not at all.
- *
Malcolm smiled sadly as he remembered things which were now lost to him. He could still see Elanor, clear as day in his mind's eyes, laughing softly at a joke, brushing away that wavy lock of hair which always used to fall into her eyes when she moved her head. He remembered the soft scent of vanilla which she always liked to wear, remembered the soft touch of her skin against his, and the way her bright blue eyes used to sparkle with mischief whenever she thought to some new way to play a practical joke on her brother. Malcolm remembered all the good, all the tiny little things for which he loved her, but he also remembered, with sadness, the bad times. He remembered, the last time he had ever spoken to her, they had fought. The last memory he had of them together was of an argument, a petty fight which Malcolm regretted to this day, even after death.
*
Malcolm Reed pursed his lips angrily as he watched his wife packing her stuff, ready to leave him for the cold abyss of space."You shouldn't be going, Catherine." It wasn't a plea, it wasn't a request, it was an order. His wife of four years turned to him, her eyes flashing with open fury.
"We've talked about this already, Malcolm." Her voice was heavy with anger and impatience. Malcolm stepped closer to her, grabbing her arm.
"Cathy, it's too dangerous." He said coldly, and she sneered at him, her eyes hard and cold.
"Too dangerous? You're just jealous that I got this job rather than you!" Malcolm scowled. It was half true, at least – they had both been in the running for the job of armoury officer onboard the newest warp ship – The SS Sovereign and Malcolm had been quite… surprised when his wife had got the job, over him. Surprised, and more than a little bit jealous. Not that he'd ever admit as much to her.
"That's not what it's about!" He shouted, not exactly lying, but not completely truthfully either. Catherine looked at him in disbelief.
"Yeah, right. Face it Malcolm, you're turning into your father." She snapped, and Malcolm drew back as thought he had been burnt."How dare you!" He hissed vehemently, trembling with fury. "How DARE you!" Catherine looked into his eyes sadly.
"But I do dare, Malcolm." She smiled a small, sad smile. "You're not the man I married four years ago. You're not the man I met, that day, nearly a decade ago, in the bar." Malcolm shook his head, not understanding.
"Of course I am, Elanor, what are you on about?" Catherine sighed heavily.
"Look in the mirror, Malcolm! What happened to you, to the honest, beautifully innocent boy I met nine years ago?" Malcolm gave her a cold look.
"He grew up." He replied shortly, before sweeping from the room, leaving his wife for what would be the last time.
- *
And so Malcolm found himself 'sitting' in what had been his old quarters, cursing himself for being such a fool. He would have done anything – anything – would have given up his life, everything he owned, but to have one minute to make up for all that he had said, to apologise to his wife. Sobbing, he laid his head in his hands, tasting the saltiness of his tears as they ran softly down his face.
"I'm so sorry,Cathy." He whispered to the darkness. "So very sorry."
"I know." A voice said from behind him, and he whirled around. Standing there, in the centre of the room, her ethereal frame shining with light, was his wife. She smiled softly, and stepped closer to him. He tried to speak, but found he could not. All he could think about in that moment was that the torture was finally over, and that he was reunited, at last, with the only person he had ever truly loved.
*
A/N: I hope you liked this chapter – please tell me what you thought of it, and any suggestions would be welcome. Next chapter, things are going to get much more interesting… and angsty!