Title
: Killing ThingAuthor
: Sita ZGenre
: Angst/DramaRating
: PG 13AN:
As always, the feedback is much appreciated ;)!Chapter 14
The ceiling was gray; nothing had changed about that. No amount of staring could change anything about the fact that this was simply a stupid, gray metal ceiling, a nondescript bulkhead that seemed far too low at times. And, what was even worse, that held no answers at all.
John had no idea how many days he had spent lying on a bed, staring first at the ceiling of the IC unit (white, with isolated ducts running along one side of the room) and then at the ceiling in his quarters (gray, interrupted only by a small grate in the corner that led to the ventilation system). Yeah, he could easily say that there was nothing about starship ceilings that he didn't know. In the meantime he had become a damn expert.
His contemplations of the gray Starfleet design were interrupted only by Phlox, but usually John let out a sigh of relief when the doctor left again. There were only so many questions you could answer with a mere nod or shake of the head, and Phlox was beginning to avoid those. Instead, he wanted John to talk, talk and then talk some more, to provide data for the diagnosis.
How do you feel, Lieutenant? Is there anything you'd like to tell me? Are you having nightmares? Feelings of anxiety? Anger? Anything you'd like to mention?
The stupid thing was that John had, in fact, nothing to say. Oh, there had been nightmares and feelings of anxiety and anger (emphasis on the latter, a helpless anger at himself and the world in general), but nothing he wanted to share. He had no idea if the doctor, like everyone else, felt nothing but contempt for him and put on his professional mask simply because it was his job, or if he really wanted to help. It didn't matter, either. He wasn't going to be anyone's study object, one way or the other.
That left only the ceiling. He stared at it, not moving, for hours at a time, trying not to think, something that became easier after the doctor had started to put him on anti-depressants. John had told him, of course, that he wasn't depressive (his first full sentence in two visits, but it couldn't be avoided), but Phlox had decided not to listen, and in the meantime, John had kind of grown used to the way the medication seemed to spread a thin blanket over his mind, allowing him a brief respite he could use to get some sleep.
Before the anti-depressants, sleep had been something John had tried to avoid at all costs, even if it meant biting his own thumb so hard that the pain kept him from dozing off. With mere pain he could deal; with the nightmares, not. The dreams always started the same; Tucker on the floor, arms covering his head to protect himself from the kicks and blows. Then Martin and himself, hauling the dazed man to his feet. Manhandling him to the bed, shouting obscenities and laughing at Tucker's futile attempts to free himself, the details of what followed vivid enough to make John sick to the stomach every time he woke up. More than once, he hadn't managed to reach the bathroom in time.
The worst thing, however, was that in the dreams, he felt good. When he woke up, all he wanted to do was vomit at the memory of what they had done, but as long as the nightmares lasted, in a twisted sort of way, he enjoyed it. The anger, the feeling of absolute power over another human being... it all came back, reminding him exactly why they had lost control, why even Tucker's screams and the blood hadn't stopped them. Correction- hadn't stopped him. John was pretty sure that Martin and Ramon wouldn't have continued the assault, had he tried to prevent it.
After one of the nightmares, as he had lain in the darkness with tears of shame in his eyes, it had come to him that this was probably what he deserved. His own personal purgatory. Or hell; it all depended on your point of view. If he was reliving the whole thing again and again, then Tucker certainly was, too, and John could only imagine what the man must be going through. Maybe it was only fair, him having those dreams. If he were in Tucker's position, he would certainly want his tormentors to get a daily (or nightly) reminder of what they had done. John knew with a cold clarity that he would not have forgiven anything in Tucker's place, ever. Or in Reed's place, for that matter. Merely the idea of anyone hurting Cora in such a way sent a wave of anger through him, and he could totally understand why Reed had attacked him and broken his nose. John only wondered why the Armory Officer hadn't finished the job and killed him there and then. Then however, judging from the look in Reed's eyes, he might have if the Captain and T'Pol hadn't stopped him. John wasn't going to blame him for trying.
Cora
. John closed his eyes, blocking his view of the ceiling for a moment. Her face came to him, the way her dark green eyes sparkled when she laughed. She wasn't tall, hardly reached up to his shoulders, and people tended not to take her seriously at first, a tiny woman with blonde curls wearing a gray Spacedock uniform. Most of them were in for a surprise, sooner or later, just as he had been when they had started going out together. Cora might look like a little girl, but there was hardly anything childish about her character. In fact, she was the most down-to-earth person he had ever met. It was one of the many things he so loved about her, and it had made writing the letter ever so much harder. Because there was no down-to-earth explanation for what had happened. In fact, he had struggled hard to come up with any explanation at all.John had not expected an answer to his letter, nor had he harbored the slightest doubt that the moment she received it she would consider their relationship to be over. But of course she had a right to know. Hitting the send button had even brought a sad kind of relief; if he was capable of hurting someone once, who knew if he wasn't going to do it again. Cora wasn't safe with him, and of course, no woman could love a man who had done what he had done to Tucker. It was best for both of them if they called it off.
He had tried telling himself these things for two days, silencing the small, rebellious voice at the back of his mind insisting that no matter what the circumstances, he would never do anything to hurt Cora.
Her answer had arrived, and at first, John had considered not opening it at all. He knew she wouldn't become abusive - that wasn't her way - but there were other ways to let your disgust show. He wasn't sure if he could take it, reading in black and white just how much she detested him.
Two days ago, he had opened the letter after all, to discover that it consisted only of a few short lines in her usual straightforward style, telling him that she refused to break it off "just like that". "We need to talk when you're back".
He had stared at the few words for a long time, half expecting to discover that it had been a mistake, that the letter was actually meant for someone else. Finally, he had gone to bed, back to staring at the ceiling and trying not to think. Retreating to his so-called "depression" was easier - and less confusing - than wondering why the hell she would still be willing to look at, let alone talk to him.
The door bell chimed, and John opened his eyes again. Not the doctor's usual time for a visit, but then, he wasn't complaining. He was tired, and maybe Phlox's concoctions would allow him to catch a few hours of sleep. Real sleep, no nightmares.
"Come," he said. There was a small beep as the door was unlocked, and a few seconds later the doctor entered, smiling when he saw John on the bunk.
"Lieutenant."
John nodded silently in response.
"Ah, I see you haven't finished your lunch." Phlox sighed as he lifted the warming lid off the barely touched dish of pasta. "Again, as I might add. I believe we have discussed the consequences of self-inflicted malnutrition, haven't we, Lieutenant?"
John sighed. "I wasn't hungry."
"It doesn't matter if you feel you aren't hungry." The doctor came to stand in front of his bunk, arms crossed in front of his chest. "You need to eat. I'm not sure if you're aware of it, but you're bordering on anorexia, Lieutenant. I can't allow this to continue."
John nodded, hoping that if he appeared to agree, the doctor would give him the injection and leave. His head was beginning to ache with lack of sleep, and he knew that if he didn't get a dose of Phlox' happy juice soon, he would develop a full-blown migraine.
"You'll need to get up to eat your lunch, Lieutenant."
John glanced up and saw that Phlox was still watching him, now with a slightly impatient expression.
"I told you I'm not hungry, doctor."
"And I told you that it doesn't matter."
Sighing, John sat up, resigning to the fact that Phlox would not leave until he at least pretended to show some interest in his lunch.
The doctor smiled. "I'm sure you'll feel a lot better when you've finished your meal."
I doubt it
. With an inner sigh, John took a seat at his desk, barely refraining from turning his face away as he lifted the lid off the plate. For some reason, the mere smell of food tended to make him slightly nauseous these days. All the same, he picked up the fork and began to stir around the spaghetti without actually raising any of it to his mouth. Maybe if he appeared to be eating with gusto, he could get away with having only a few mouthfuls before the doctor left again."The Captain has contacted the Vulcan space port," Phlox said, taking a seat on John's bed. "There's a Vulcan freighter leaving for Earth two days after our ETA. They've agreed to take you aboard. Ensign Kelsey and Ensign Florez will be accompanying you."
"They're leaving as well?" John stared down at his plate.
"They both believe it's for the best if they don't stay on Enterprise any longer."
John nodded. It was what he had expected, although that didn't make him feel any better about their decision. "How long until we reach Vulcan?"
"The science conference Subcommander T'Pol plans to attend begins in four Vulcan days. The Captain believes that we can still make it in time."
Four days left of his time on Enterprise. John couldn't honestly say that he wasn't relieved to go. "Good."
He ate another tiny forkful of pasta, just so he had something to do with his hands. So this was it. Goodbye and good riddance, don't forget to close the door when you leave. No court-martial, not even a civilian hearing, no yellow press journalists taking the incident apart piece by ugly piece. Just a quiet flight home on a Vulcan freighter, and a lifetime of trying to "live with it". Sometimes John wondered if Starfleet had bullied Tucker into not pressing charges, just to avoid the scandal that was sure to follow. He couldn't think of any other reason why they - he - should not be made to face the consequences for what they had done.
"Cora wrote to me two days ago," he said suddenly, not quite sure where the words had come from. He raised his head and saw that Phlox was trying not to appear surprised.
"Cora?" the doctor asked. "Is she your wife?"
"My girlfriend." He stared down at the fork in his hand, then abruptly put it down on the table. "I sent her a letter."
Barely concealed delight appeared on the doctor's face, and John couldn't blame him. Phlox had been telling him for weeks to find someone "to talk to", if he felt he couldn't discuss his feelings with the doctor. John could almost see him taking a mental note on the improvement of his patient's condition.
"If you'd like to talk about it, Lieutenant..."
"She said I should apologize." The last line of the letter, the one he had read over and over again. "Maybe you don't think so right now, but an apology can make a world of difference."
Phlox regarded him calmly. "And do you agree?"
"I... I don't know." It was true. Apologizing to Tucker - hell, even facing the man - seemed like the hardest thing to do, and yet... ever since Cora's letter, it had become increasingly harder to pass his days lying around in a numb stupor, waiting for the next dose of wonder juice that would allow him to forget. "Maybe. But..."
He lowered his head.
"You're afraid to face Commander Tucker," the doctor stated quietly.
John nodded. "Yeah."
Phlox was silent for a while. "I understand," he said, and for once he didn't sound like a doctor talking to a patient. "If I were you, I'm not sure if I'd have the courage to do so."
"You're not serious, Mal."
"Believe me, I am. I'm serious enough to resort to drastic measures if you don't stay in bed as the doctor ordered."
"Oh? An' what kinda "measures" would tha' be, Lootenant?"
Malcolm crossed his arms, refusing to react to the exaggerated drawl Trip put on for the sole purpose of driving him crazy.
"I haven't decided - yet. Intimidation, perhaps. Or physical restraint. I'm going to sit on you if I have to, but you're going to rest, just as the doctor said you should. Understood?"
Trip regarded him for a moment, and Malcolm could see that his partner was torn between laughing and continuing to argue. Finally, however, the good-natured side of Charles Tucker III won over (or maybe the side that worried Malcolm might have been serious, after all). Abandoning his place in front of the computer terminal, Trip crossed the short distance between them and slid his arms around Malcolm's waist.
"Intimidation, huh? You think that'll work?"
Malcolm pulled him close for a kiss. "Absolutely."
Trip grinned. "Meaning I'd better come peacefully, right?"
Malcolm smiled in response. "If you know what's good for you, yes, you'd better."
He watched Trip sit down on his bunk, and his amusement vanished as he saw how Trip, bending down to take off his shoes, groped into thin air twice before he got hold of his left sneaker and pulled it off. Before they had left sickbay this morning, Phlox had warned them that there might be movement disorders, but there was a difference between knowing that it might occur and actually seeing it happen.
The seizure had been bad, worse than all of the previous attacks. In the meantime, Malcolm more or less knew what he had to do, but still, waking up at four in the morning to find Trip on the floor in front of the bed, eyes tightly shut and body arching off the deck in convulsions, had left him more rattled than he cared to admit. This time, the hastily administered hypospray had changed nothing about Trip's condition, and only when Phlox had arrived, quickly injecting Trip with a strong dose of another anticonvulsant, had the seizure lessened. Trip had spent the rest of the night in sickbay, rather dazed by the injection but still lucid enough to scold Malcolm, who refused to return to his own quarters to get some sleep. Even now, more than twelve hours after the attack, he couldn't quite forget how terrible Trip had looked, his face twisted and distorted by the convulsions. And it hurt, seeing how his illness limited Trip even in simple, everyday things.
"Mal?"
Malcolm blinked, trying to shake off his sudden dark mood. "Yes?"
"I..." Trip's voice faltered, and he glanced down at his discarded sneakers. For a moment, he looked so vulnerable that Malcolm could have kicked himself.
"Trip, I'm sorry, I... I didn't mean to stare."
Trip made a brave attempt at a smile. "Hey, that's okay. Phlox said that kinda thing was gonna happen. It's just..." His smile, which had never really been there in the first place, began to fade. "It feels strange."
Malcolm nodded, sat down and rested an arm on Trip's shoulders. "I know. But with any luck, there's something we can do about it. And soon."
He felt Trip's arm snaking around his waist as the engineer slid closer. "I can't ever thank you enough for doin' this, Mal. Even if it doesn't work..."
"You'd do the same thing for me."
Trip sighed. "Yeah, I would. 'cept that you wouldn't get yourself into such a fix in the first place."
Malcolm turned his head a little. "I was the one who barely escaped living out his life speared to a piece of hull plating like a cherry tomato, remember?"
Trip burst out laughing. "Like a what?"
"My aunt used to make these canapés when she came over for New Year's Eve... a cherry tomato and a piece of feta cheese on top of a soft cracker, all held together by a toothpick. Was the first thing that came to my mind when that spike went through my leg. After a number of expletives, of course."
Trip stared at him. "That's what you were thinkin' of? Your aunt's New Year's Eve canapés?"
Malcolm blushed and nodded. He had never intended to share that particular detail with anyone, but it was the God's honest truth.
Trip smiled. "You're weird, you know that?"
"That's why you love me," Malcolm responded automatically, and felt Trip's arm tighten around his waist.
"Yeah, I guess that's got to be it."
A companionable silence followed, and Malcolm was about to suggest they turn in for the night when the door signal chimed. Trip sighed and - rather reluctantly - extricated himself from Malcolm.
"I forgot. The doc said he wanted to check on me one more time before I go to bed. Just a sec."
T'Pol's surprise visit still vividly in mind, Malcolm left the bunk and took a seat on the desk chair instead while Trip went to open the door. There was certainly no need for every visitor to Trip's quarters to find the Armory Officer lounging around on the bed.
When the door opened, it was all Malcolm could do not to jump to his feet. Standing in the corridor was Phlox, and next to him, another man, wearing civilian clothes and looking incredibly nervous.
Trip stared at Peters for a moment before he looked back at Phlox. "Doc?" Malcolm could tell that Trip was struggling to sound calm, and forced himself to remain where he was. Whatever Peters was here for, it was up to Trip to handle it.
"Can we come in, Commander?" Phlox's voice was level, as if he were merely here on a routine visit. For a few seconds, Trip stayed where he was. Then, he stepped aside, allowing the doctor to enter. Peters hesitated, and only followed when Phlox gave him an encouraging nod. Malcolm pressed his lips together. Whatever the doctor's motives were, there was no need to bring the man here into Trip's quarters, the one place where Trip was slowly beginning to feel secure again.
Peters looked thinner and paler than the last time Malcolm had seen him, with the unhealthy pallor of someone who has lost a lot of weight in a short time. From the way he stood next to the doctor, eyes downcast and shoulders hunched, it was obvious that he would have preferred to be anywhere but here.
Finally, it was Trip who broke the silence. "What do you want?"
Peters, realizing that he had been addressed, raised his head. Malcolm saw the plain fear in the man's eyes, and for a very brief moment, he almost felt sorry for him.
"I... " Peters cleared his throat. "I've come here to apologize."
Trip stared at him, then turned away, looking out of the window instead. "Did the doc tell you to do this?"
"Not at all, Commander," Phlox answered levelly. "The Lieutenant has come here of his own accord. I'm only here since he is not allowed to leave his quarters unaccompanied."
Trip turned back around and crossed his arms in front of his chest, but not before Malcolm had caught the slight trembling of his hands. He said nothing, simply looking at Peters, and finally, the Lieutenant continued.
"I know that nothing I can say can change what I've done, but... I want you to know I've never regretted anything more in my life. I don't really know what to say..." He took a deep breath. "I'm so sorry, Commander."
Trip was still staring at him. "Are you?"
Peters nodded, lowering his eyes again as if he could not bear to look at Trip. "Yes," he said very quietly. "I am."
A short silence followed, then Trip let out a small sigh. "I'm not sure what you want to hear from me. I'll accept your apology, if that's what you want, but it won't really change anythin', y'know. It's like you said, we can't change what happened. I don't really know why you're here, Lieutenant."
Peters looked up again. "Why didn't you press charges against us?" His voice was very soft, almost a whisper. "You could've had us locked up for years."
"And a fat lot of good that would've done." Trip shook his head. "I don't care if they lock you
up or not. Frankly, I don't even care if you're sorry or not. The only thing I'd like to know..." He met the other man's eyes. "Why do you hate us so much? Me and Lieutenant Reed, I mean. It's not like we've ever done anythin' to you."
Peters closed his eyes. "I know," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."
"That doesn't answer my question."
The Lieutenant opened his eyes again, and Malcolm could see that they were brimming with moisture. "I don't know, Commander. It's true, I didn't..." He glanced away for a second. "I don't like what you're doing, and I guess I never will. But I never... before we went down to that planet, I never wanted to hurt anyone. You have to believe me."
Trip regarded him for a long moment. "I believe you that it wasn't on your mind to hurt anyone," he said finally. "But I guess you would've ended up doin' it anyway, in some way or other."
Peters shook his head. "That's not fair."
"No," Trip said quietly. "It's not. There's nothin' fair about the whole thing."
The Lieutenant stood there for another moment, then eventually, he nodded, as if he had come to a decision. "I... I'd better get back to my quarters."
Trip nodded, watching silently as the other man followed the doctor to the door. Before they left, Phlox turned around one more time.
"Call me if there's anything you need, Commander. I'll be in sickbay after I've returned the Lieutenant to his quarters."
"Will do, doc."
The door slid shut, and for a moment, Trip only stood there, shoulders hanging. Then he sat back down on his bunk and scrubbed a hand across his face.
"I didn't need that today."
Malcolm silently agreed, still somewhat annoyed with Phlox for picking today to do this, of all times. "You did great," he said quietly.
Trip raised his head and propped his chin on his hands. "I'm not so sure. Maybe I shoulda just..." He waved a hand, leaving it to Malcolm to interpret the gesture.
"You mean, just tell him to forget about it?" he asked.
Trip nodded. "Woulda been the decent thing to do, I guess."
Malcolm shook his head. "I think he wanted an honest answer. Not that it really matters." He shrugged, thinking of what he would have done if Peters had shown up at his door. "It was awfully decent of you to listen to him and not kick him out straight away."
Trip sighed. "I'm not all that good at kickin' people out." He smiled, somewhat tiredly. "Guess that's more your field of expertise."
"Probably." Malcolm got up, feeling the bones in his back protest as he did so. "Well, I don't know about you, but I'm knackered. Do you mind if I use the bathroom first?"
Trip shook his head and waved for him to go ahead, his mind clearly on other matters. Malcolm sighed as he went into the small head, hoping that tonight they would be able to get a full night's sleep. He could only speak for himself, but he certainly needed it.
TBC...
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