Title: Killing Thing

Author: Sita Z

Genre: Angst/Drama

Rating: PG 13

AN: Thanks to everybody who reviewed chapter 1!

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Chapter 2

"Reed to sickbay."

"Phlox here," the doctor responded almost immediately, as if he had been waiting for Malcolm's call.

"Doctor, if you wouldn't mind coming down here for a minute," Malcolm said. "I... I think you're needed."

"I assume "down here" would be in front of Commander Tucker's quarters, right?" The doctor didn't wait for Malcolm's confirmation. "I'll be with you in a minute, Lieutenant. Phlox out."

Phlox signed off and Malcolm leaned against the wall next to the comm, staring at the closed door to Trip's quarters. Calling the doctor might not have been the wisest move, given Trip's earlier reaction, but Malcolm didn't know what else to do. And he had to do something, couldn't just walk away when Trip was... not himself.

Malcolm noticed that his hands were clenched to fists. Those bruises on Trip's face and body couldn't be the result of an accident; the patterns were too deliberate. But the away team couldn't have run into a fight, could they? The negotiations had gone well, the Ru'khi being delighted at having alien visitors, and even more delighted at being able to sell them a fair amount of dilithium, a substance their own people had no use for at all. And for once, Captain Archer had agreed to have three security guards assigned to the away party, "just in case." Trip had been more than excited about the mission, trying to wheedle Malcolm into abandoning the weapons upgrades and joining them on the surface.

"Come on, it'll be fun. Fresh air, enjoyin' the scenery... it'll do you good."

Now, Malcolm wished more than anything else that he had listened. If he had been there... if he had been able to protect Trip...

"Lieutenant?"

Malcolm raised his head. He hadn't heard Phlox approaching.

"Doctor. I'm glad you're here."

The Denobulan's face was set into worried lines as he looked at the closed door. "I take it you've been to see the Commander."

Malcolm nodded. "He wouldn't open the door, so I used the override to get in. He's..." He swallowed, not sure how to describe what Trip had been. "He's not being himself. And he's been hurt."

"I know." Phlox sighed. "It was obvious when they returned from the surface that Commander Tucker had been injured. He would not allow me to examine him, however, and became quite... agitated when I approached him with a medical scanner. Needless to say that he didn't let me in when I came down to his quarters."

From his tone, Malcolm took it that Phlox had spent more than a few minutes outside Trip's quarters, trying to persuade him to open the door.

"What... what about Captain Archer?" he asked. "Didn't he order Trip to stay in sickbay?"

Phlox lowered his eyes. "Lieutenant, I'm afraid I can't reveal any details about the Captain's condition, but... I don't think he would have been able to give any orders at that point."

"What?" Malcolm was barely aware that he had raised his voice. "What are you talking about?"

"Let's just say the Captain was extremely... distraught when the away team returned from the surface. As was the security team. You realize that the Subcommander ordered Ensign Mayweather and Ensign Hsan to take Shuttlepod II down because none of the away party were in any condition to pilot a shuttle."

"I didn't know." The hot, tight ball in Malcolm's chest clenched, his control wavering. This was getting crazier by the minute. There had been no briefing after the mission, no announcement whatsoever. Nothing. The Captain was in his quarters, watched over by a silent and grim-looking T'Pol, and the security team seemed to have vanished into thin air, while everybody else was left wondering what the hell had happened. And there was Trip, of course, hurt and distressed to the point of losing his sanity.

Phlox rested a hand on his arm. "Lieutenant. I believe we should look after Commander Tucker. If he'll let us. One step at a time."

Malcolm nodded. He didn't look forward to going back in there, not knowing what Trip's reaction might be. But he knew that it needed to be done.

Carefully, he knocked on the door, not bothering to ring the doorchime this time.

"Trip?"

Again, there was no answer. Malcolm exchanged a look with the doctor, who nodded encouragingly.

"Trip, it's me and Dr. Phlox," Malcolm continued. "The doctor's here to take a look at your injuries."

Trip didn't answer. Malcolm gave Phlox another glance to let him know what he was doing and began to enter the security code for the second time today.

"We're coming in now, Trip," he told the silence on the other side of the door. "There's nothing to worry about, the doctor's only going to have a look at you."

The door slid open. As Malcolm had expected, Trip hadn't changed the light setting, had probably never even left his bunk. His back was turned to the door, the blankets pulled up to his chin.

"Trip?" Malcolm asked carefully as they stepped into the room. The door closed with a soft hiss. "Trip, it's me and Dr. Phlox."

Trip turned his head, as if he had noticed their presence for the first time. "I want to be alone," he said, so quietly that Malcolm almost didn't catch it. He didn't sound aggressive anymore, and there was a low tremble in his voice, as if he were desperately trying to hold back - sobs, screams, whatever.

Phlox approached the bed. "Commander, you're hurt. I can help you if you allow me to examine you."

Malcolm doubted that Trip had been listening; he seemed lost in his own world of misery. The doctor caught Malcolm's eyes, glancing at Trip's desk chair. Malcolm understood. Keeping his movements slow and his steps quiet, he walked over to the desk, picked up the chair and set it down next to the bed so Phlox could have a seat without getting too close to Trip.

Phlox nodded his thanks and sat down.

"Commander," he said. "I can see that you're in pain. But I'm not going to do anything without your permission. Will you allow me to examine you?"

Trip didn't turn around. "I told you to go away. I want to be alone."

Malcolm sat down next on the edge of the bed and laid a hand on the other man's back. He expected Trip to push him away, but Trip only tensed a little at his touch. Not sure if he was doing the right thing, not caring if the doctor drew his own conclusions, Malcolm began to stroke Trip's back, very gently, careful not to touch the places where he remembered the bruises to be.

"It's okay, Trip," he said, acutely aware of how wrong he was. Nothing was okay, and Malcolm had known from the first moment he had entered Trip's quarters. But what else was he supposed to say? "It's okay."

After a while, Trip began to relax under his caresses, the tension gradually easing off. Malcolm continued stroking, and out of the corner of his eye saw something (...a smile?) flicker across Phlox' face.

Doesn't matter. Later would be enough time to deal with the consequences of his actions, the fact that he had just revealed to a third person what was really going on between him and Trip. Right now, it was only important that Trip felt safe.

His left hand still resting between Trip's shoulder blades, Malcolm slowly began to remove the blankets that Trip had wrapped around himself like a caterpillar's cocoon.

"It's okay," he repeated when he felt Trip's muscles tense in response, "everything's all right, love. Dr. Phlox needs to take a look at your back."

Trip said nothing, but he didn't resist either when Malcolm laid the blankets aside and gently pushed up his sweater and shirt.

"Oh God."

Malcolm bit his lip before an angry curse could slip out. The brief glimpse he had gotten before hadn't prepared him for this. Trip's waist looked as if someone had tried to claw their way to the inmost layer of the skin, the large purplish bruises interrupted by deep, red scratches and marks that looked as if they had been left by fingernails.

Malcolm looked at Phlox, and saw that the doctor's normally cheerful features had grown rigid. Phlox took out his scanner, his face growing even darker as he studied the readings on the small display.

"Doctor?" Malcolm bit his lip.

"Not now, Lieutenant." Phlox wouldn't meet his eyes as he took a hypospray out of his medkit. "This should help with the pain," he said to Trip, who nodded silently. "You won't have to go through surgery," the doctor continued in that strange, quiet tone. "It's best to leave your internal wounds to heal on their own. But I'll give you something to prevent an infection."

He injected Trip with another spray, then proceeded to clean and dress the worst of the scratches. Trip lay passively through the doctor's administrations, never giving any indication that he was even aware of what was going on around him. Malcolm's heart was racing in his chest. Internal wounds. What the hell was that supposed to mean? If there was internal damage as the result of a beating, leaving the wounds to heal on their own might be a fatal thing to do.

"Doctor..." he began, trailing off when Phlox shook his head. Something about the doctor's face sent a chill down Malcolm's spine. Fury shone in those strange blue eyes; a cold anger that seemed so unlike the doctor's normally gentle nature.

Phlox tucked his scanner away, then, still avoiding Malcolm's eyes, he leaned forward and spoke quietly to his unresponsive patient.

"Commander, I'm sorry, but I'll have to take... a sample."

Malcolm could practically feel the panic surge back into Trip's body; he tensed, as if ready to run, and tried to move away. Malcolm had no idea what kind of sample the doctor was talking about, but he didn't care. Whatever it was, it couldn't be that urgent.

"Doctor, maybe this can wait until later..."

"I'm afraid not, Lieutenant." Phlox took a small glass container and a cotton swab from his medkit, meeting Malcolm's eyes. "I believe I need your help here."

Malcolm understood. Whatever the doctor was going to do, it was obviously going to be uncomfortable, maybe even frightening for Trip. As carefully as he could, Malcolm moved closer to the man on the bed and resumed his caresses, running his hand through Trip's sweaty hair.

"It's going to be all right, love," he said. "No one's going to hurt you. It's going to be fine."

Trip's eyes were tightly shut, and he flinched as if in pain. Malcolm spared a glance to check what the doctor was doing, just in time to see Phlox tugging Trip's briefs back into place. The swab in the sample container was stained with red. Malcolm stared at it.

"May I have a word with you, Lieutenant?"

He nodded, feeling numb as he got up and followed the doctor to the window. Phlox rested both hands on the narrow window sill, half-turning his head to look at Malcolm.

"Lieutenant, what I'm going to tell you now falls under doctor/patient confidentiality. Under normal circumstances, only the Captain would be entitled to detailed information, but..." Phlox sighed, turning to look out the window. "I'm going to need your help, Lieutenant. Commander Tucker is going to need your help, especially since the two of you are so close."

Malcolm glanced at Trip who was still facing away from them, then at the container with the bloodstained cotton wad inside.

"What happened to Trip, Doctor?"

Phlox turned to look at him. "The Commander has been sexually assaulted. And brutally so, as you have seen yourself. I'm sorry, Malcolm."

Malcolm barely noticed Phlox' use of his first name. Somewhere, somehow, he could feel his world crashing down, shattering into a thousand tiny pieces without so much as a sound. Maybe he wasn't even that surprised, had known the truth from the moment he had seen those bruises, his mind pushing it away because he couldn't bear to face it. It didn't matter. He stared at Phlox' sad face, felt a hand coming to rest on his arm, but found himself unable to move or speak.

"Lieutenant," Phlox said. "Commander Tucker is going to need your help, now. Do you understand that?"

Somehow he managed to nod. "I... I understand."

"Good." Phlox gave his arm a gentle squeeze. "Normally, I would have the Commander transferred to sickbay, but right now it's more important that he stays in an environment where he feels secure. He can't be left alone, however."

The automaton in Malcolm's mind that had taken over nodded again. "I'll stay with him."

"I'll ask Subcommander T'Pol to relieve you temporarily of duty so you can remain with Commander Tucker as long as needed." Phlox glanced at the huddled figure on the bed. "I'm going to give him a sedative so he can sleep. When he's resting, you can try and make him more comfortable, and... clean him up. It might be better if he's not awake while you're doing so."

Malcolm nodded again. "But... the blood... shouldn't you do something about it?"

"I already have, Lieutenant. The injection I gave him will prevent the internal... abrasions from becoming infected, which is about all I can do at the moment. Commander Tucker's injuries don't require surgery, and are best left to heal on their own."

Malcolm watched the doctor pick up the sample glass and store it away in his medkit. "You'll find out who did it," he said, his own voice sounding flat and hollow in his ears.

The doctor raised his head. "I will. But... please remember, Lieutenant, that Commander Tucker needs you. I realize that you may feel the desire to seek revenge, but you'll only hurt the Commander by doing so. He needs you to be there for him, not to go off on a vendetta."

Malcolm held the doctor's eyes. "I'm not going to let him down, Doctor."

"I never said you would." Phlox sighed, administering another hypospray to Trip before he gathered up his medkit. "I'll come back tomorrow to check on him. I'll be in sickbay so you can contact me if complications arise."

"I will."

The doctor gave him a worried look, then turned to the door. "I'll see you later, Lieutenant."

"Doctor..."

Phlox turned around again. "Yes?"

"Are you going to inform the Captain about... about Trip?"

Once again, Phlox lowered his eyes so he wouldn't have to look at Malcolm. "I'll let Subcommander T'Pol know. I don't think the Captain is in any condition yet."

Malcolm watched the doctor leave, wondering what was keeping the Captain from coming down here to check on Trip. Jonathan Archer thought of Trip as a substitute little brother, a younger sibling he had to look after and protect , and Malcolm would have expected him to come rushing down to his Chief Engineer's quarters as soon as he realized that there was something wrong. But he hadn't done so; in fact, from what little Phlox had told him, it sounded as if the Captain was seriously ill. Or incapacitated. Whatever. Nobody seemed inclined to divulge any more information, and right now, everything seemed secondary in the face of what he had just learned.

Malcolm turned back to the bed, and suddenly felt the urge to scream, to grab any breakable object in the room and slam it against the wall to watch it shatter. To kill someone. Despite his chosen profession, Malcolm had never felt the desire to end a life, not until now. It was a hurtful sensation. Burning in his mind, making him shake. But he couldn't deny that it was there.

For several seconds he just stood there, waiting for the mad rage to cool off again. Only twice in his life had he failed to keep that tightly-strung control, and on one of those occasions he had almost killed a man. He couldn't afford to lose it now.

Slowly, Malcolm unclenched his hands, forcing himself to take a deep breath. He had done this before, suppressed his emotions in times of need, and he guessed he could do it again. He could be calm, he could even be strong if Trip needed him to.

Approaching the bed, Malcolm saw that Trip had indeed fallen asleep, as Phlox had said he would after the injection. He was not resting quietly, his eyebrows drawn into a frown and his breathing shallow and hoarse, but he was sleeping. As Malcolm stared at his partner's bruised face, the sudden tight feeling in his chest rose into his eyes, and he had to blink away tears. Now was not the time to let himself go and fall apart.

He went into the bathroom, took a washcloth out of Trip's cupboard and wet it with warm water from the sink. That done, Malcolm grabbed one of the towels and went back into the main room where he grimly and silently set about the task of "cleaning Trip up". It was difficult not to flinch and look away when he saw the thin streaks of caked blood, and even harder to hold back his tears as he carefully began to clean them away, but somehow he managed to do so. When he was done, he simply dropped the washcloth and towel on the floor next to the bed and drew the covers back over Trip. Malcolm was about to get to his feet when the sleeping man suddenly began to shift and let out a small moan. His eyes moved from side to side under his eyelids and his hands clenched the sheets, shaking and trembling. More than anything else, Malcolm wished he could have woken Trip from his nightmare, but returning to reality wasn't likely to make things better for Trip. And he needed his rest.

Trip moaned again, and Malcolm came to a decision. Even though Trip had shied away from his touch at first, Malcolm's presence and gentle caresses seemed to have calmed him down during Phlox' examination, allowing him to relax. Not quite sure whether he was doing the right thing, Malcolm slipped out of his boots and uniform, left them on the floor next to the towel and, clad only in his blue briefs, crawled into bed next to Trip. Very carefully so as not to startle the sleeping man, Malcolm lay down behind him and gently pulled Trip closer. He drew the blankets over both of them and for a moment just lay there. The sensation of Trip's skin on his, of a warm, breathing body next to his own made him suddenly and acutely aware of how lucky he was that Trip was still alive. He had seen the injuries on Trip's lower body; whoever inflicted such wounds on another person wouldn't care if the object of their aggression did not survive the attack.

Slowly and carefully, Malcolm slipped an arm around Trip so that his hand and forearm came to rest on Trip's stomach. The other man moaned softly in his sleep, and Malcolm slid closer, whispering into Trip's sweat-drenched hair.

"It's all right, love. I'm here. No one's going to hurt you. It's all right."

Trip stirred again, and Malcolm continued to whisper, his hand ghosting across the fine hair on Trip's stomach.

"It's okay, Trip. It's going to be okay."

After a few minutes, Trip grew quiet again. His breathing had evened out, and he seemed to have slipped into a deeper, dreamless sleep. The soft fabric of his flannel sweater brushed across Malcolm's stomach, and Malcolm realized that Trip had moved closer to him, relaxing in his embrace instead of pushing him away. It was a gesture of complete trust and Malcolm found himself swallowing tears, wishing that he had proven himself worthy of such a thing. If he'd been there, he could have protected Trip, would have killed the attacker if necessary, to make sure that no one hurt the person Malcolm Reed cared most about. If he'd only been there.

Malcolm closed his eyes, causing the tears he had been holding back to trickle down his cheeks. Every time Trip left the ship to join Captain Archer in another away mission, another diplomatic effort that required Commander Tucker's ingenuity and engineering skills (rather than a paranoid security officer hovering in the background), Malcolm's far too imaginative mind came up with at least twenty different scenarios that would result in Trip ending up in sickbay, getting kidnapped, or otherwise threatened by some of the less welcoming aliens they had met out here. This, however... this was worse than anything he had ever imagined while prowling around the armory and counting the seconds until Trip would stroll through the door - alive, safe and sound - and fill Malcolm in about the details of his latest away mission with "the Cap'n" (a.k.a. Captain Jonathan Archer). Even in his worst nightmares (and those were bad), Malcolm had never seen himself in a dimly-lit cabin, holding his partner's battered and bruised body and wondering if Trip would ever return to something like a normal life, if he would ever be the same person again. If he would still want Malcolm Reed in his life after what had happened to him at the hands of a sadistic stranger.

The idea of Trip shutting him out and ending their relationship was more than Malcolm could bear to think about, and he forcibly pushed the thought away. It wouldn't - couldn't - happen.

Trip moved again, and Malcolm ran a careful hand through his sleeping partner's hair.

"It's going to be all right, Trip," he said, trying to convince himself that he wasn't only spouting empty phrases. But how could things ever be all right again after... all of this?

"It's going to be all right," Malcolm repeated in a hoarse voice, refusing the idea that it could be otherwise. "You're going to be fine."

Trip calmed down again at the sound of Malcolm's voice, and Malcolm continued his caresses, suddenly reminded of an evening in Trip's quarters only a few weeks ago. They'd been watching one of Trip's godawful horror flicks, Malcolm leaning against Trip and offering the occasional sarcastic remark about the film while Trip had had his arm around Malcolm's shoulders, interrupting his popcorn consumption now and then to tell Malcolm to shut up when they got to the "good parts".

"Just for that, I'm making you watch a film version of "King Lear" next time," Malcolm remembered himself saying when the closing credits had scrolled down the screen. "It seems as if your choice of entertainment could do with a little Shakespeare."

Trip had only grinned in response. "You do that, and it'll be the killer androids the next three times I get to pick the movie."

They had bickered about the film for a while, then Trip had declared war by grabbing the rest of the popcorn and announcing that if Malcolm wanted any more he should get his own from the messhall (their unspoken rule was that if you picked the film, you also provided the snacks). Malcolm wasn't quite sure how it had happened, but in the end he had found himself pinning a madly giggling engineer to the bed, threatening to resort to some serious measures of torture if Trip didn't give Malcolm his fair share of the feed (just on principle, since at that point the popcorn had been scattered all over Trip's bed and the floor). Trip, who had told Malcolm in an unguarded moment that he was "a little ticklish", had had no choice but to surrender, start picking up the popcorn and popping them one after the other into Malcolm's mouth. Sitting on a crumpled bed, redfaced and exhausted with laughter, Malcolm had felt more like a hormone-ridden teenager than a Starfleet officer, and at the same time more happy and alive than he had in a long time. Being with Trip tended to do that to him.

Malcolm noticed that he had tightened his arm around Trip's waist, and carefully loosened his grip. Hurting or scaring his injured partner by holding him too tight was the last thing he had in mind. He lay very still, listening to Trip's breathing and feeling the soft rise and fall of Trip's stomach under his fingers. And decided that even if things never returned to what they had been, he wasn't going to give up on this man. He would be there, offering whatever support he could give. Making sure that no one ever laid their hands on Trip again, and that those who had already done so would suffer, if he ever met them face to face.

Malcolm tugged at the blankets so that they covered both him and Trip to the shoulders and resumed his gentle stroking of Trip's hair. He stayed like that for most of the night, holding Trip and staring into the dark, and it was only in the early morning hours that he finally fell asleep.


TBC...

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