The moment that followed was too delicate for words. At least for Malcolm, it was a confusing mess of sated aftermath and desperately awkward silence. Malcolm half hoped that the pod would decompress right that second, sparing him the conversation that was bound to follow. Another part of him felt oddly safe lying so intimately next to a man with whom he wouldn't even have discussed his favourite food just a short while ago.
After another few seconds, Malcolm cleared his throat in a way that voiced his discomfort more clearly than words, and carefully retrieved his hand from inside his shipmate's briefs.
He tried not to think about the fact that Trip was his superior officer, or about the frequent breakfasts and dinners that Trip and the captain shared. Such a topic might come up eventually. With these Americans, there was no way of knowing what they were comfortable discussing with one another. As his thoughts whirled about on such tracks, he cast around the room for something to wipe his hand with, when he suddenly became aware of Trip's eyes on him. There was a curious expression on his face, part worried, part amused. When their gazes met, the commander broke into a sheepish grin.
"Seriously, Malcolm! Looking at you, I could think you'd just helped me commit a murder. What's the matter?"
Pulling his jumpsuit back on, Trip kept his eyes on Malcolm, who felt his earlier anxiety creeping back on him.
"Gee, if you don't sit down, you'll wear a hole in the deck plating and we'll die even sooner." Trip's voice held most of his usual cheerfulness, but there was also an underlying tone of anger in it.
Malcolm heaved a loud sigh, his hand reaching to massage his temples before he remembered its current state and let it sink with a sudden resigned laugh. "You have no idea how awkward I'm feeling right now! I was just hoping for a hull breach to put me out of my misery. I mean ...," he gestured half-heartedly between the two of them, "... isn't this going to be mortifying? Just imagine being in Decon together ..."
Face uncharacteristically serious, Trip got up and stopped Malcolm from pacing, locking eyes. "Stop that! Firstly, are you ever gonna do something about that hand?"
With a wry look, Malcolm wiped his hand on his briefs, while Trip watched him intently. "Is this really such a big deal for you?" he went on, his eyes never leaving Malcolm's face, searching for the truth in the Englishman's expression.
The familiar scoff was back. "I don't know about you, but I don't make a habit of snogging my commanding officers while waiting for a ship that might or might not come to save us. I find it deeply disturbing how easy it was for you to get me to -"
That made colour rise in Trip's cheeks. "Whoa, hold your horses! I got you to kiss me? It takes two to tango ... or in that case, make out." He scrubbed his hands over his face, trying to calm his temper, then took a deep breath. "Never mind. I'm not even gonna go there. Way I see it, we're in a pretty difficult situation and we both needed some stress relief. Now, I can only speak for myself, but I liked it. Doesn't mean we have to do it again, doesn't mean we have to feel bad about it."
Trip's blunt assessment of what had happened helped calm Malcolm a little. He heaved a sigh of relief and sat down heavily on the bunk opposite of where Trip stood. "You're right, I guess. Every cadet has heard tales of officers getting trapped somewhere, usually with a pretty violent twist. This isn't any different. It's not as if we're attracted to each other, right? We can just forget this ever happened and move on."
As decisive as his voice sounded, Malcolm couldn't stop a blush from creeping into his cheeks as his eyes fell on the commander's chest that was still exposed. Mortified, he noticed that Trip was well aware of his reaction and that one of his trademark smirks was already spreading on his face, when suddenly the comm crackled.
They rushed for the consoles, hope surging through Malcolm that this away mission hadn't been his last after all.
It had taken Enterprise an excruciatingly long time to reach them after they had re-established contact, and they must have both lost consciousness, for when Malcolm opened his eyes, Captain Archer and T'Pol were looking down at him. He recognised the sounds and smells of sickbay immediately, and the events of the past few days came pushing back into his mind, making his cheeks go warm. He found that he couldn't remember anything after being raised by the ship. Had he and Trip finished their talk?
Heart beating quickly, he tried to sit up to look around for the commander, but was pushed back down firmly.
"You cut it pretty close out there," the captain chided, concern betraying his usual unruffled manner. "We almost didn't get to you in time."
Malcolm reluctantly settled back against the pillow. His head felt ready to split down the middle. "How's Trip – er, Commander Tucker? I can't really remember what happened after we got the comm back."
Archer smiled. "Trip is just fine. As a matter of fact, he's already been discharged. I believe he was eager to get a change of uniform."
Malcolm fought down another blush at the thought of just what had happened to get those uniforms so dirty and how Phlox must have wondered at the stains.
"Commander Tucker informs us that you will be compiling a full report, while he will make the necessary repairs to the shuttlepod." While T'Pol talked, Malcolm found himself studying her features and Captain Archer's, looking for signs that what had transpired in that pod had already gotten through to them somehow. Satisfied for now that they remained oblivious, he nodded his approval and the two of them left sickbay, giving Malcolm over to the care of Doctor Phlox.
"Why so glum, Lieutenant?" he asked, injecting Malcolm with an analgesic. "You don't even have to stay here for observation, as far as I'm concerned. I suggest you go catch up with Mr Tucker, get those missing memories back. Sometimes, certain engrams can get lost in the heat of the moment, as they say."
Chuckling happily, Phlox went to one of his shelves to put away the hypospray, while Malcolm got dressed hurriedly and was about to leave, when Phlox called after him. "Wait, Lieutenant! If you happen to see Mr Tucker later on, why don't you give him this, hm?" He held out a small tube containing some salve or ointment.
Malcolm accepted it with a puzzled look, then nodded. "Sure, what should I tell him that it's for?"
Phlox smiled one of his too-wide smiles and affected an air of nonchalance. "Oh, this should take care of those bothersome scratches and the bruises on his neck. He didn't mention any discomfort and I didn't say anything in front of the captain, but I know a love bite when I see one. They can be pretty painful. Have a nice day, Lieutenant!"
Stammering incoherently, Malcolm left sickbay rather stiffly. He was going to have to find out how that talk had played out.
Ignoring all attempts from passing shipmates to engage him in conversation, Malcolm had almost reached the hangar deck, where he believed Trip to be making repairs to the pod, when he recalled Archer's remark about Trip's desire for fresh clothes.
He changed direction and headed instead for the crew quarters. He had been to Trip's cabin before, to deliver a status report or suggest the duty roster for his security personnel, but this would be his first social call there, and despite their recent intimacy (or maybe because of it), he felt decidedly uneasy about it. Before he could talk himself out of going through with it, however, Malcolm had reached Trip's door and pressed the bell button.
There was a short pause, before he heard the commander's voice over the intercom: "Come in!"
The door slid open and Malcolm stepped into a cabin that was almost identical to his own. The same narrow bunk, the same desk with the computer interface. He looked around, but couldn't find the occupant. Wanting to make his presence known, Malcolm knocked on the desktop. "Commander?" Somehow he didn't feel justified in using Trip's nickname in the current situation.
Hardly more than a moment passed before the blond man's head appeared in the doorway leading to the bathroom. Steam wafted out all around him, blurring the contours of his body. "Be right with you, Malcolm. Just give me a second to dry off."
Malcolm swallowed against his suddenly desert-dry mouth and gave a quick nod. Trip's head disappeared again, only to return an instant later with the rest of his body, wearing nothing but a bath towel wrapped around his slim waist. His body still glistened wetly, droplets of water clinging to his face and shoulders. He smiled readily when he greeted the lieutenant, thankfully neglecting to comment on the way the Englishman's face had flushed crimson with embarrassment.
"What's up?" he asked instead, picking up a clean undershirt and pulling it over his head.
Malcolm watched the dishevelled head rise from the neck of that shirt and was suddenly vividly reminded of the other day in the shuttle, when he himself had reasoned that it would all be alright, since neither of them was attracted to the other. At the moment that was decidedly untrue.