Malcolm sat on the sand next to his surfboard, board shorts and rash guard shirt still wet, the drips from his hair tracing tracks down his face and neck. He could smell the sunscreen and water, hear the waves rolling in as he let the light filter through his closed eyelids, turning his world red. At this time of day, any mist rising off the ocean was beginning to burn off with the strengthening sun. He liked this part of the day; this part of Florida. On the Atlantic side, a less touristed beach up north, near Saint Augustine. Less crowded than other parts of the state; those that still were intact and getting tourists, and those that were not, and rebuilding.
His sister had wanted him close, near her in England; and he could have done. Similarly, his mom wanted him in Malaysia, no doubt to keep an eye on him. Understandably. And although it would have been nice, perhaps even necessary from both their perspectives and those of his doctors, that he have such a support system near him, he felt that he could use the distance; and he didn't want to be as much of a burden as he would have been on them, living near them as he struggled with his disorder and its treatment. "Post traumatic stress...", indeed. So he'd come here. Maybe, in part, because this was Trip's home state. Maybe because this was about as far from Starfleet as one could get and still be in the continental United States. Regardless, it had been easy to find occasional work in the recovery from the Xindi attack. And he now had a pretty steady part time gig working at the surf shop behind him. That, and the money he had from his time in the service was enough to help him get by. He had all he needed.
"They told me I'd probably find you here."
Malcolm didn't look up. He knew Trip was referring to the people at the surf shop, and he was used to Trip's coming and goings.
No, wait. The medications were taking care of that, and he was on them right now, so this was the real Trip. Despite his medications, sometimes, things did get a bit confusing. Off them was worse. Last time he'd gone off the medications, he'd ended up in Pennsylvania, "self medicating" with drink and… best not to think about that. So this, here, was in fact the real Trip.
"How you doing?"
Malcolm opened his eyes and peered up through his fringe, trying to see the source of the voice. He didn't push his hair away; instead, he let it screen his view of the world and of Trip Tucker, the man himself. Trip was dressed casually, feet bare on the packed sand, socks tucked into the sneakers he held in one hand. He looked a bit older, but still like himself. Malcolm nodded, then moved his eyes to the waves.
"How's the surf?" Trip asked, sitting beside Malcolm on the sand.
Malcolm shrugged. It hadn't been bad this morning. A bit rough, most likely related to a storm that was due in tomorrow. He'd had to watch out for potential rip current, but otherwise, he'd thought it was good. The sun was nice. Not too hot yet; still early. He tried to come early when he could, and when the waves allowed, before most people got to the beach. At this hour, it was mostly retirees walking the shoreline, the occasional person on a bike, a couple of surfers like himself. Earlier on, it had been people coming here before work – construction workers here for the rebuilding efforts, office workers here rebuilding their lives. But not many. He didn't like crowds. Actively avoided them now.
Malcolm recalled the last time Trip had visited. Trip had been surprised to find Malcolm was now surfing. Shocked, even. Questioning his sanity, perhaps - but that was nothing new, he supposed. He smiled at that. Most people who knew him well would be. In fact, even he himself had wondered, at first. But that was also nothing new. So in the end, he'd taken up the sport as a deliberate challenge. Was he mad? Could he do this? Surf, despite his aquaphobia - master the water; master himself? With so much of the rest of his life out of his control, he'd been determined to do this one thing. Perhaps especially this one thing. To separate the man he'd been before, from the one he was now.
His sister, Maddie, was the one person who'd understood. They'd taken different paths, lead different lives, but they were actually quite similar under all that. She'd understood his need to try to wrestle some semblance of control over something that had been heretofore uncontrollable. Or to at least try. She'd even sent him his first bar of board wax. He'd not even owned a surfboard yet.
Trip had been surprised - understandably considering Malcolm's fear of water - but along this area of the shore, that fear was more manageable. Thus why he'd picked this particular location. The water was actually rather shallow, only waist or shoulder height for quite some distance out, the waves usually less than a meter high - enough to really surf but not by any imagination huge. It was a challenge he felt he could face, something to focus on when so much else in his life seemed to be unmanageable. He'd also quickly gotten good enough that he spent most of his time on top of the board, rather than beneath the water. Still, he always kept the shoreline in view, and no matter how early he came there was always someone else there, riding the waves. He gave a sarcastic half smile - his fellow surfers didn't seem to mind him being... as he was now. They hadn't known him, before.
"Hey, Malcolm; you in there?"
There was no annoyance in Trip's tone – more like curiosity. Just checking he was listening. Trip didn't ever really seem to mind Malcolm not replying. The man had a gift in terms of the whole talking thing, and he could carry on a conversation for the both of them. He heard Trip turn to face him. "I heard from Phlox a couple of days ago. He said he'd been trying to reach you."
Malcolm shrugged again.
"I know it's been a while since… since all this started." Trip hesitated. "Since you got sick."
"Four years, three months, thirteen days," Malcolm said, eyes still on the sea. He could see some fishing boats far offshore, most likely coming in with a late catch.
Trip paused again, maybe surprised that Malcolm had finally replied; maybe surprised that Malcolm knew, to the day, when he'd got ill. Trip went on, "I know you've been through a lot." He stopped, and dropped his voice. "I know you've tried a lot of different…" He sighed. "Listen, Phlox doesn't think…" He sighed again. "Malcolm, could you look at me for a minute?" When Malcolm didn't react, Trip put a hand on Malcolm's arm and gave a small tug.
Malcolm turned his head to Trip, squinting against the light. The sun was higher in the sky, now. It was likely to be a typical Florida day. Hot as hell and twice as humid. Now that sounded like something Trip would say. He smiled slightly.
"Malcolm?" Trip said.
It was hard to focus. The meds, his illness, or both. But he tried. He dragged his eyes back to Trip, consciously taking a breath.
Trip turned his entire body to face Malcolm. "Phlox thinks he may have figured something out. He wants to see you. Would you be willing to go to San Fran and meet with him?"
Malcolm wasn't sure what to think. Breaking Trip's gaze, he deliberately looked away. To the ocean, to the couple jogging down the beach, to the dunes, anywhere.
"Malcolm," Trip said, hand to his knee to draw his attention.
"I don't…" Malcolm said, clenching his fists and pressing them into the sand below him. He could feel the tension building in his shoulders. It wasn't that he didn't want to. He'd already tried everything. They'd tried everything. He was as he was, now. He'd... he was... he was considerably better. He had things under control. And from here, they'd told him that things might continue to get better with time and treatment. Or things might not get better with time and treatment. Might; might not.
Might not.
It was hard enough, difficult enough, to keep himself grounded here, to make himself take his meds even when he knew they were interfering with his thinking; to keep taking them even though he knew this was the best they might make him feel. And yet the alternative would be worse. So he did; he took them, he followed the treatment plan. And he lived his life. Even liked it. It just wasn't the life he'd planned or expected.
"I totally get it if you don't want to do this. But Phlox…" Trip tapped him on the knee again. "Phlox is the one person I'd make an exception for, on stuff like this."
Malcolm considered Trip's words.
Might; might not.
Might.
"I'd rather he come here," Malcolm finally said.
"The facilities he needs are at Starfleet medical."
Malcolm didn't like to travel. Not anymore. He found it… difficult. It was hard to keep things straight when they kept changing. He was… he felt better when he was home, in his routine. It would be hard to break from all this, even for a short time. He wasn't sure, if he left, if he could keep himself intact. He rubbed a hand against his shorts to dislodge some of the sand, then pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Headache?" Trip asked softly.
Malcolm shrugged again, knowing he was basically admitting as much. He closed his eyes, trying to center himself, willing the ache away, rubbing his hair roughly. Sticky with salt, of course. Likely standing on end, now. He wore it longer than he had back when on Enterprise. No reason not to.
"Sorry, probably my fault," Trip said.
Malcolm knew he wasn't following Trip's meaning.
"For the headache," Trip said, seeming to read Malcolm's mind.
When Trip went to say something else, Malcolm interrupted. "Would you come with?" He hesitated. "If I go." He opened his eyes, taking in the surprised look on Trip's face. His friend had obviously thought that convincing him to go was going to be considerably more difficult than it just had been. And he wasn't quite sure why he was agreeing. But as Trip had said, if anyone might be able to help him, it would be Phlox, and with Trip there… Trip might make this a bit easier.
"Yeah. Sure. Of course." Trip stood, holding out a hand. "I've got a transport –"
"Now?" Malcolm asked, surprised. "Seriously? Dude."
"I figured the sooner, the…" Trip raised both eyebrows. "Did you just actually say 'seriously, dude'?" He laughed. "Aren't you supposed to be British?" He looked around. "How long have you been on this beach, exactly?" He looked around as if he were afraid that surfing lingo might be catching.
At that, Malcolm smiled. He'd been here for long enough; he supposed he'd picked up a bit more than surfing. Taking Trip's hand, he let the man haul him to his feet. He'd try. For Trip; maybe even for himself. He'd try.
x-x