Title
: Killing ThingAuthor
: Sita ZGenre
: Angst/DramaRating
: PG 13AN:
Thank you for your reviews!Chapter 19
Trip woke to the feeling of a hand running down his back. Warm fingers massaged his skin in small, circulating movements, creating a pleasant tingle in the places they touched. For a minute or two, Trip kept his eyes closed and allowed himself to enjoy the sensation, feeling warm and drowsy and relaxed. Malcolm's hand - for Trip didn't have to open his eyes to know that the fingers on his back did indeed belong to his partner - continued its administrations and started to apply a gentle massage to the small of his back. Trip sighed, and a second later gasped for air when the hand went a little further down south, came to rest on his left buttock and squeezed it not-quite-so-gently. Trip opened his eyes and rolled over onto his side to face his partner.
"Someone's feelin' pretty good, huh?"
Malcolm smiled in a way Trip had never really seen before; usually, in a situation like this, Malcolm would display a shy half-smile, combined with a slight reddening of his cheekbones that Trip found incredibly endearing. There was nothing shy about this smile, though; if Trip hadn't known that this was Malcolm, he would have thought that his partner was trying, and not quite succeeding, to look "wicked".
As Trip had rolled over, Malcolm's hand had slid off his behind; now, Malcolm reached out again and gave his buttock another squeeze, this one almost hard enough to sting a little.
"You could say so," he replied, still smiling in that strange way. "Sorry, love, but I couldn't resist, with you stretched out like that... you were too tempting a target."
Trip laughed, although it sounded a little forced to his own ears. He wasn't sure if he liked the strange mood that seemed to have caught his partner.
"Yeah, well..."
He glanced over to where their discarded uniforms lay, about to suggest that they get dressed again when Malcolm continued: "Had a nice nap?"
Trip looked back at the other man, wondering what Malcolm was playing at. He had never heard his partner use that tone of voice before, heavy with innuendo and accompanied by a look that came close to a leer. Trip was about to ask Malcolm half-jokingly if the sun had gotten to him, but somehow the words never made it out. If this was one of Malcolm's weird jokes - and he did tend to make those, confusing Trip or another unsuspecting American with a sudden salve of British humor - the question would sound awkward and out of place. Instead, Trip settled for another smile and a shrug.
"Yeah, I did. You?"
"Oh, fine." Malcolm reached out again and, in an almost absentminded way, began to trail one finger along Trip's thigh. The tingling sensation that followed excited Trip, but at the same time he almost flinched away. This was getting weirder by the minute... no, second.
Malcolm glanced at him through lowered eyelashes. "Do you think you're up to a little exertion?"
Before Trip had the chance to answer, or even realize what Malcolm had just said, he suddenly found himself lying on his back in the sand, pinned down by the other man who was straddling his waist. For a second or two, Trip was too stunned to move or make a sound. It wasn't as if Malcolm hadn't used this move on him before, but never like this. Never in this almost aggressive way, as if he were trying to prove that if he meant business, he could do whatever he wanted and there was nothing Trip could do about it.
Frowning, Trip tried to move his hands, but Malcolm was holding his wrists in an iron grip, almost hard enough to hurt. A spike of sudden, irrational panic went through Trip's chest, before he told himself to get a grip, goddammit. This was Malcolm, after all, his sweet, gentle Malcolm, and if he was going somewhat over the top in his playfulness, well, it was nothing Trip couldn't deal with.
Willing himself to relax, he tried for a level tone of voice. "Come on, Mal, stop this, okay?"
Malcolm only grinned. "I don't think so, Mr. Tucker."
Without letting go of Trip's wrists, he leaned down for a kiss. Trip considered turning his head away, but only for a second. If Malcolm was really only being playful (in a strange way, maybe, but still), he would be badly hurt if Trip rejected him in such a way. He reciprocated by parting his lips slightly, only to regret it a moment later when Malcolm all but forced his tongue into his mouth. Startled, Trip tried to pull back, but Malcolm didn't seem to care, kissing him hard enough to hurt. When he finally broke the kiss, Trip gasped for air. The lack of oxygen had left him somewhat dazed and it took a second until he realized where the metallic taste in his mouth came from; blood. There were only a few drops of blood where Malcolm's teeth had grazed his lower lip, but the mere taste of it startled him like a slap in the face. This was not playfulness, and it had never been. Malcolm didn't care if he hurt him; hell, maybe he had even been trying to hurt him; he sure had bit down hard enough.
As he stared up at his partner's smug face, anger welled up inside him, accompanied by - which was worse, a lot worse - fear. This could not be happening, not now, not ever, and yet it was. And judging by the predatory look on Malcolm's face, it wasn't over by far.
Trip licked the blood off and forced himself not to struggle; somewhere in the more instinctive parts of his mind, he knew that he would only make it worse if he offered futile (but much enjoyed) resistance. He had no idea what had gotten into Malcolm, why he was doing this, but it had to stop. Right now.
"Malcolm," he said, hoping that the other man wouldn't notice the faint tremor in his voice. "this is no joke, okay? I'm not sure what you think you're doin', but I don't like it."
Something in Malcolm's face changed, growing hard and angry. Still, somehow he managed to hold on to his grin, which seemed as fake as the rest of his expression.
"Come on, Trip. You're the one who practically ripped off his clothes earlier. What happened to having a little fun?"
Trip refused to react to the barb; he knew that if he did, he would no longer be able to quench the anger and fear that were struggling to come to the surface.
"Malcolm, I'm not gonna tell you again. Let me go, right now."
Malcolm was breathing heavily, and for a second or two didn't move at all. Trip could see - and feel - that the other man was more than "up to a little exertion", and he had to summon every last scrap of self-control not to start squirming and yelling. He knew that if he did, something awful was going to happen, something so terrible that he didn't even want to think about it.
He forced himself to stay completely still and finally, with an expression of deep disgust on his face, Malcolm let go off his wrists and got up again.
"Great."
The single word held so much frustration and contempt that Trip actually winced. Malcolm was sitting there with his arms crossed, watching as Trip struggled to get himself back to a sitting position.
"Just great."
Now that the heavy weight was gone from his midst, some of Trip's panic subsided again, allowing him to think clearly. It was all right. He was okay. Malcolm had listened to him, he had stopped. There was no need to freak out over this and make it even worse than it already was.
He forced himself to sound calm as he addressed his partner. "Look, Malcolm, I'm sorry if you thought I..."
"Please." Malcolm didn't even look at him. "Spare me the talk, okay? I don't think I can stand going through it yet again." He adopted a whining tone of voice, continuing in a cruel but accurate imitation of an American accent. "I'm so sorry, I can't help it, I'm too busy feeling sorry for myself to even consider getting back to a normal life one day!"
Trip froze. It wasn't so much the words, which were hurtful enough by themselves; it was the tone of Malcolm's voice, cold and deliberately cruel. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" Malcolm turned around to meet his eyes, and Trip involuntarily shrank back a little. "How long are you going to keep this up? Months? Years, perhaps? Every time I try to touch you, you tell me to back off, and that you need more time to get over things. Well, I'm not going to wait forever, you know!"
Trip only stared at him, hardly able to believe that this was Malcolm sitting there, staring at him with an expression of barely concealed contempt... and hate. Yes, there was no denying the look in Malcolm's eyes; anger, frustration to the point of losing it, and hate. That was what it boiled down to, and Trip felt almost physically hurt by the realization.
"Malcolm..." He swallowed. "Why didn't you say somethin'? We could've talked about this-"
"And what use would it have been to talk about it? I've done so much talking, listening to your whining and telling you that none of this is your goddamned fault - although it probably is - I'm sick and tired of talking!"
Suddenly, Trip's anger was back, spilling into his voice and raising it to match Malcolm's. "I never asked you to babysit me, if that's how you see it!"
Malcolm got to his feet, his hands clenched by his sides as if he were coming that close to striking Trip. "No, you didn't, more's the pity. I should have seen that it wasn't worth the effort."
Trip wanted to get up as well, but for some reason his legs refused to move. He still didn't understand how this could be happening. Had he so thoroughly missed the signs, the frustration that had built inside his partner and was now spilling over, confronting him with all the things Malcolm had kept hidden somewhere deep inside? Again, he tried to listen for Malcolm's mind-voice, expecting an onslaught of anger and... yes, and hate, but there was nothing. Obviously, Malcolm had decided that there was no place for Trip inside his mind, or his life.
He realized that Malcolm was expecting an answer of some sort. "I..." He tried to speak past the lump in his throat, but somehow, the words wouldn't come out, and so he simply shrugged, realizing that he must look like an idiot.
Malcolm seemed to be thinking along the same lines. "God, just look at you. It's like talking to a wall. You know, it was always a little frustrating, talking to someone whose conversational topics are restricted to food, technobabble and those imbecile movies of yours... but then there was at least one aspect to this so-called relationship that I could get any enjoyment out of. Now..." His mouth became a thin line. "I don't understand why I ever bothered."
Trip said nothing. He felt cold all over, as if the world around him had suddenly turned to ice without changing any of its outward appearance. He had never before felt so naked, so exposed, and it wasn't only the fact that he didn't have any clothes on. Malcolm's words seemed to crawl into his skin, turning him inside out and stripping him of the last shred of dignity he might have had left. He couldn't even find it within himself to feel angry, or hurt, let alone say anything in response. All he could do was sit there and stare down at his hands, as if they could tell him how to stop this, how to end this nightmare.
He heard Malcolm inhale, as if he wanted to add something, and closed his eyes, wishing there was a way he could stop himself from listening. He wasn't sure if he could hold back the stinging behind his eyes any longer if he did.
Malcolm, however, seemed to have decided that there was nothing left to say, turning away with a disgusted noise.
"Just... go, will you," Trip heard him say in a flat voice, quietly, almost as if he didn't care whether Trip heard him or not. "You make me sick."
Trip raised his head and saw that Malcolm had sat down in the sand a few meters away, turning his back on him. For some reason, now that Malcolm was no longer looking at him he was able to move again. Slowly, he climbed to his feet, brushing off the sand that was sticking to his skin, and walked over to where he had left his uniform. His hands were shaking, and he almost dropped his blue undershirt before he managed to pull it over his head. He considered gathering up the rest of his clothes and leaving - all he really wanted was to get away from here, just get away - but then he decided against it. The naked feeling was still there, almost burning on his skin, and he felt he wanted to cover up as much of himself as he could. He pulled on his back shirt and uniform, closing the zipper almost to the top, then knelt down to put on his socks and boots. His hands were still trembling, and for a terrible second, Trip believed he was going to have another seizure, right here on the sand with Malcolm sitting over there refusing even to look at him. Malcolm wouldn't neglect to help him; no, Trip was sure that he would be right there, hypo in hand, but he would do it the way someone would catch a spider and quickly throw it out the window instead of squashing it right then and there - not because he was particularly interested in the spider's well-being, but because he simply saw no need to kill it, and was loath to clean up the mess afterwards. Trip had seen it in Malcolm's eyes, the contempt, the hate, and he didn't want to see disgust added to the list after Malcolm had given him the injection to stop his convulsions.
For a second or two, he didn't move and concentrated on willing the weak and shaky feeling to go away again. Finally, to his eternal relief, it subsided. A brief glance at the shore told him that Malcolm hadn't noticed. The other man was still sitting with his back turned to Trip, staring out at the lake. His entire posture seemed to echo his words of before: Just go away.
Swallowing hard, Trip finished fastening his boots and got up again. The backpack was still where Malcolm had left it, next to his uniform, and after a moment's hesitation Trip bent down and took the medkit out of the top pocket. He might not be able to inject himself when a seizure was turning his limbs into a twitching mess, but he could try and give himself the hypospray before the attack started. He had no intention of relying on Malcolm's help in this - or in anything else, for that matter - so it would have to do. He had no idea where he was going to go, back to their camp site, perhaps, or to the shuttle, but he knew that he wouldn't - couldn't - stay here. Malcolm was not going to see the tears that were building up behind his eyelids.
Turning around without another look back, Trip walked away, the medkit clutched firmly in his hand. He passed the willows that grew in solitary clumps in the area around the lake, but he never spared them a glance. A few hours ago, they might have reminded him of happy things, of things he would share with only one person, but now that memory was tainted. Trip felt incredible shame when he thought of the way he had shared his feelings, how he had revealed things that he had never told anyone about before.
He had no idea how long he walked, staring down at the grass that was forming gentle waves across the open land. He never raised his head, never looked back, and at times felt as though he was sleep-walking, passing long distances in his dream that he would have never been able to walk in real life. His feet didn't grow weary as they should have after a while, but he never paid it any mind. He walked on.
Malcolm was in shock. Which wasn't surprising, really; he guessed most people would be more or less rattled if they woke up to find that they had died. However, that was not exactly why he trembling all over, or why there was a puddle of rather unappetizing goo on the sand nearby. He was surprised that dead people - spirits, you probably called them - could still vomit. He would have expected them to have risen above such earthly afflictions.
In his case, it had not simply been the usual thing, floating in the air looking down at his own body from above, then passing on to whatever place he was destined to go. He had woken up to find himself sitting about a dozen meters away from his dead body, which was stretched out on the sand next to Trip as if there were nothing wrong with him. A theory that was more or less confirmed when the "body" suddenly started to move. At the time, Malcolm had been so shocked that for the minutes that followed, he could do nothing but sit and stare. He saw himself, a living, breathing person that looked like Malcolm Reed in his birthday suit, touching Trip, feeling him up in a way that would have disgusted and enraged Malcolm, had he been able to feel anything but numb stupor at the time. The phrases "hallucination" and "out-of-body experience" had flitted through his mind, but they had held no meaning, nothing that could have helped him understand why he was sitting here watching himself doing these things to the man he loved.
He had been startled out of his numbness when the Malcolm next to Trip - the body, as Malcolm had still referred to it - jumped up. For a second, it had looked as if the other Malcolm was going to punch Trip, and Malcolm had been on his feet before he could think what he was doing.
"No!"
Of course, neither Trip nor the other, fake Malcolm had heard his yell; spirits might be able to communicate with the living world in some way, but certainly not through yelling. Pushing Trip down in the sand, the other Malcolm had straddled Trip, and Malcolm had felt a flash of panic that was not entirely his own. It was then that he realized that Trip was still there, in his mind, although there was no way Malcolm could communicate with him. Trip's thoughts echoed through his mind like a recorded broadcast, something you could hear, but could not respond to. The realization had added to Malcolm's shock, but at the time, his attention had been solely focused on his partner. The other Malcolm had held Trip's wrist in a tight grip, and had, over Trip's repeated protest, refused to let go, leaning down to kiss him instead. Malcolm had felt the pain when the impostor had bit down on Trip's lip, had experienced Trip's surprise and horror as if it were his own.
At that point, Malcolm had no longer been able to keep himself from interfering, although he knew it would be useless. He had crossed the distance to the two men (running, not gliding like a ghost, as he had realized to his faint surprise), had yelled at the other Malcolm to back off, right now. Of course, no one had heard him, and Malcolm had been forced to watch Trip struggle to contain his panic, to stand there doing nothing as the other Malcolm decided whether he was going to take by force what Trip would not give him willingly. For one, terrible second, both he and Trip had believed that he was going to do it, that it was actually going to happen. Malcolm had wanted nothing more than to bring his hand down hard on the impostor's neck - and he had done it, too - but of course the other Malcolm hadn't even noticed that his own spirit was trying to kill him. Somehow, however, the moment of indecision had been broken. The other Malcolm had let go of Trip, with a look of disgust on his face, and had then said some of the vilest, foulest things Malcolm had ever heard out of a sane person's mouth. Although, to tell the truth, "sane" might not be the right word to choose in order to describe the person who had hurt Trip in such a way.
Malcolm had found his own eyes filling with tears as he watched Trip shuffle over to where they had left their clothes, pulling on his uniform with the air of a man who hardly knows what he is doing. For some cruel reason or other, Malcolm had still been able to feel Trip's thoughts in his mind, which at the time had been no more than a confused jumble of shock, confusion, and raw hurt. Trip had not understood what had just happened; all he had known was that Malcolm had hurt him in a terrible way, and that he had to go. Get away.
Malcolm had tried to reach out to his partner and tell him that, while he had no idea what was happening himself, he wasn't the one who had done these things to Trip, but Trip hadn't listened. He probably hadn't heard him at all. After taking the medkit out of the backpack - not going to rely on Malcolm's help in this, or anything else, for that matter - he had left, never looking back. Malcolm had considered going after him, but found that, for some reason, his feet wouldn't move. He had stood there watching Trip's form grow smaller as he walked out into the grassland, feeling his partner's thoughts fade away as the distance grew between them. Malcolm knew near to nothing about telepathy, but he was sure that usually, things like space or distance didn't matter. No, the fact that Trip's presence had disappeared had to have another reason... and the only explanation Malcolm had come up with was that this was the point when he had really, truly died. His physical existence had ended some time before, while he was having a nap on the beach ("bloody ridiculous way for you to die", a nasty, uncaring voice in his head commented), but it was only now that Malcolm had died, had been cut off from the living world for good. Cut off from Trip. And Trip was probably glad that he was gone.
Malcolm had expected himself, the ghost or spirit or whatever bleeding name there was for this state of existence, to vanish, maybe soar up into the sky (or, more likely, be consumed by a roar of flames coming from below). None of this had happened, however. He had stayed where he was, standing next to his own pile of clothes and staring at a place in the distance where Trip had disappeared a few minutes ago. It had all felt very real - the sand under his feet, the gentle breeze on his bare skin - and yet Malcolm had known that, had anyone else been there, all they would have seen was a discarded blue uniform, a Starfleet issue backpack, and nothing else.
For some reason, at that point his feet had been able to move again, and he had turned around, walking back to the shore. So maybe he was dead, and maybe there was no way he could communicate with the living world anymore, but there was one thing he could do, and that was find out what the hell was going on here. Malcolm had no idea who the person was that he had just witnessed abusing his partner, but he didn't care. They said that a ghost could come back to take revenge... well, this ghost was going to do a little more than that. He would do some thorough questioning, and, if there was any way of doing so, some even more thorough cheekbone-crushing and nose-flattening. Should be interesting to see how he himself looked, having the living shit beaten out of him.
However, when he had got back to the place where two bodies had left impressions in the sand, there was nothing there. The other Malcolm, the one who had been real enough to pin Trip down on the ground, was gone as if he had never been there. Malcolm had stood there, staring at the place where he remembered seeing his other self, and it was at that point that he had begun to feel sick. This was crazy, no, more than that, it was insanity, and he was right in the middle of it. Had all of this ever happened at all? Had there ever been another Malcolm? And if there hadn't... Malcolm couldn't finish the thought, couldn't even try to do so. The sick feeling had risen into his throat, making him heave, and he had bent forward, vomiting some very real-looking ghost puke onto the sand. For a moment or two, he felt as if he were going to pass out, fall down face-first and drown in his own half-digested bacon and toast. And if any of this was real, if there was no other Malcolm and it had been him doing these things to Trip, for whatever insane reason or other... well, in that case, Malcolm couldn't think of a more fitting end for himself.
The moment of dizziness had passed, however, and now he was sitting on the sand a few meters away from the puddle of puke, trembling all over and trying to think. If he had died... then why was he still here, experiencing things like a living, breathing person? It couldn't be a dream, either; a dream wouldn't feel that real. And besides, he knew that he was here, that he was sitting right here on the sand, a disgusting taste in his mouth and tearstreaks on his cheeks. You didn't know or feel that kind of thing if you were dreaming... or if you were dead. No, he was awake all right, and, if the "other" Malcolm's sudden absence was any indication, he was alive as well. But how could all of this have happened? How could he have watched another person doing and saying such terrible things, things he would never even consider, when it had been himself all the time? Malcolm remembered the look in Trip's eyes after the impostor - Malcolm refused to think of this being as himself - had bitten down on his lip, drawing blood. It was how he himself felt, how he had felt ever since he had discovered that madness was not simply a thing that happened to those poor other people you read about in the medical journals. He was mad, insane, and the worst thing about it was that he knew it. A person who almost committed a rape, hallucinating all the while and believing that he was dead, could only be insane. Dangerously so. For a brief moment, Malcolm considered if it might not be best if that person simply walked into a lake (if one happened to be available), knocked himself unconscious with a rock and hoped for the best. In this case, it might actually be a sensible solution.
A movement at the edge of his vision drew his eyes away from the water. Malcolm turned his eyes, and, behind a blur of something that could only be tears, saw something moving along the shore, coming closer. He blinked, and when his vision cleared up, he saw that the something was actually familiar, a small figure with four legs, large brown eyes and a bushy tail.
Malcolm
, the fox said.I've been looking for you.
TBC...
Please let me know what you think!
