§ 8 §

T'Pol approached the sickbay doors with what could only be classified as apprehension. Not even her Vulcan resolve could help her quench it, but it was already better than the near panic she had experienced when Trip had been transported on board.

She had known immediately that his injury was serious, had seen it on the Denobulan Doctor's face, usually so loath to betray his concern, as Phlox had urged his medics to carry off the gurney on which the unconscious Commander lay. T'Pol had wanted to follow him and Archer to the infirmary right away, but had been afraid of it; afraid that the circumstances and the Captain's emotions would be too much for her right now, and her control would shatter. She had exchanged what she knew was a horrified look with Archer, and watched him hurry after the group. She, instead, had gone to her quarters, to prepare herself for what might be another assault to her already weakened fortitude. But now she was here.

The sickbay doors opened and Archer came out. He must have seen her through the glass, standing still a few metres away.

"Phlox hasn't come out of surgery yet," Archer said hoarsely. His face was a mask of concern.

T'Pol nodded silently and averted her eyes, afraid to look too long into the Captain's gaze, so apt to make her Vulcan nature wobble.

"Are you ok?" she heard him ask, softly.

Blinking, she heaved a deep, calming breath. "Please, inform me of any news," she simply replied, relieved that her voice did not waver. Turning, she scampered back to the privacy and silence of her room.

"Sato to the Captain."

Archer stopped thumping his waterpolo ball nervously against the far wall and reached for the comm.

"Go ahead."

"Shuttlepod Two is docking, Captain."

"Thank you, Hoshi."

Dropping the ball on the bed, Archer got up abruptly and left his quarters.

He strode to the decon chamber and flung its door open without a flicker of hesitation, only hoping he'd not catch Malcolm in his skivvies - somehow he doubted the Lieutenant would appreciate help from his Captain to spread gel on his back. There were too many questions that needed answers to tiptoe around, and he just couldn't wait until Reed was declared 'clean'. If he ended up having to strip down and spend time in decon with his Armoury Officer, well so be it.

Reed was dressed, blessedly. He had his back to the door but turned at the sound of it opening, and Archer's facial muscles clenched. Malcolm was filthy, bloodied and dishevelled. The one-day stubble he sported on his face did nothing to cover the bruises that covered part of it; there was a cut on his forehead which was caked with dried blood, and his lower lip was split. Not the pristine Lieutenant Malcolm Reed that he was used to seeing around the ship.

"Captain," Malcolm mumbled, trying to straighten his posture, and Archer saw him wince. More bruises must be hidden from view, he realised.

"At ease, Lieutenant," he hurried to say, finding his voice.

Reed obeyed, but didn't seem to relax at all. "The Commander?" he asked in a deep voice, boring into Archer's eyes.

Archer held the man's gaze. It looked uncharacteristically brittle. "Survived surgery," he replied tensely, "But is still in critical condition."

Reed closed his eyes briefly; then blinked them open again. Archer watched the man closely, afraid to see him waver and collapse. But Reed pursed his lips and lowered his gaze, slowly beginning to empty his pockets: one phase pistol, another phase pistol; one scanner, a second one; two communicators; one U.T.

"I'm afraid I've lost a U.T., Sir," he croaked out, tired grey eyes shooting up ruefully for a moment.

Archer frowned. A lost U.T. was the least of his concerns. "What the hell happened down there, Lieutenant? Why did you and the Trip separate?" he enquired, keeping his voice as inflection-free as he could manage. "Report," he added.

He had spoken the word softly but saw Reed react to its official meaning by going through the routine of trying to stand straighter and flinching, and he had to stop himself from reaching out to grab the man by an arm and lowering him forcefully onto a bench. He restrained himself at the last moment, knowing the Lieutenant wouldn't appreciate that, and waited patiently.

There was a long pause. Malcolm averted his gaze, seemingly at a loss for words. When he finally shifted it back, he heaved a breath to speak but it caught in his throat, and he wrapped an arm around his midsection, making Archer wonder in what state the man's ribs were. As if on cue, a well-known but unnaturally subdued voice spoke.

"Welcome back, Lieutenant."

They both turned to Phlox, who was standing on the other side of the access hatch.

"Thank you," Malcolm choked out.

"Sorry I wasn't here when you docked; I was… occupied." Phlox smirked bitterly. "You haven't picked up any pathogens," he continued. "But I can see you are in need of my care. As you'll expect, I want to give you a thorough examination."

"In a moment, Doctor," Archer said, managing to funnel determination in a soft tone.

Phlox looked ready to object; but sighed and tilted his head. "Very well. I'll be waiting for you in sickbay, Mr. Reed."

The hatch closed and there was silence. Reed turned troubled eyes to Archer.

"Captain," he murmured hesitantly, "I…" He looked down at his blood-stained hands, turning the surviving U.T. in them, and swallowed. "I swore to myself that I would not lie to you again." He waited a beat before adding with a mirthless huff, "That time was painful enough, for both of us."

Archer felt a stab through his heart. Reed had re-awakened memories he wanted buried deep. That had been the lowest point in his career, a moment so dreadful that Archer almost equated it to his father's death: Phlox had been abducted; Reed had betrayed his trust and Trip had insisted to be transferred off his ship, offering no explanation. He had never felt so alone and defeated in his life; a feeling of failure he definitely wanted to forget. His mouth went dry but he kept his eyes trained on Malcolm, willing him to go on. Reed's gaze grew pained, and Archer could see it wasn't physical suffering.

"But today," the Lieutenant went on wearily, managing to hold his penetrating gaze, "I am strongly tempted to go back on that word."

Archer felt another stab, this one of concern. Ever since Hoshi had told him of Malcolm's strange call, he had suspected something had gone awry with Trip, and had felt a weight on his conscience for having sent the Engineer on the mission despite Reed's misgivings.

"Trip?" he asked hoarsely.

"Yes, Sir." Malcolm's legs finally gave way, and he let himself slide down on a bench.

Archer looked at him and heaved a steadying breath. "I want the truth, Malcolm," he said firmly.

And Malcolm told him. He told him of a strange man and his promises; of Trip's desperate need to believe him; of his tears and of his disappearance. In a voice kept carefully level Reed told him of the fight in the bar and of Trip's timely intervention. And of how, after the Engineer had been transported on board, Malcolm had gone looking for that trickster, to retrieve all that he had stolen. He had found the man going through his enticing routine along the street where they had first met him – obviously his working territory. Malcolm confessed he had felt a desire to kill him for taking advantage of the suffering of another person. In the end, he'd only given him a good shake, got back their technology - whatever the man had not already sold - and left, too weary and concerned to inflict on the bastard the lesson he'd deserve.

Reed finished and closed his eyes, looking exhausted but marginally relieved at having unburdened his soul. Archer, who half-way through the report had slipped to sit on the bench across from him, leaned forward and put a hand on one of his legs, and Malcolm's eyes cracked open.

"Get to sickbay now," Archer said gently.

Malcolm didn't move. "Any idea who the two dead men are?"

"They're working on it, back on Earth," Archer replied, a hard expression coming over his face. "We sent samples of their DNA."

"What are you going to do, Captain?" Malcolm enquired warily. "If I may ask?"

Archer sighed. "You did warn me that you thought Trip was not ready for a dangerous mission, Malcolm," he replied straightforwardly. "Turns out I endangered both of your lives by disagreeing."

Reed jerked straighter, which elicited a groan and made him scrunch his eyes closed; he re-opened them a second later and there was dismay there. "In the end I said it was fine, Sir," he choked out past the pain. "And the Doctor had declared the Commander fit for duty. Surely there has got to be a way in your report to show that…"

"The responsibility for what has happened is only mine, Lieutenant," Archer cut him off, squaring his shoulders and using Malcolm's rank with purpose. "I will not hide behind an inventive report."

Malcolm flashed him a fiery look. "I wasn't suggesting that you lie, Sir. And if someone is at fault that is me. I should have come to you sooner, when…"

"Get to sickbay," Archer cut him off again, with gentle determination. "And that's an order."

He watched Malcolm flounder; then painfully pick himself up from the bench and leave without another word.

Sitting on a biobed while Phlox taped his ribs, Malcolm's eyes couldn't stray from the curtain enclosing Trip's bed.

He had abandoned his body, as if it no longer belonged to him, into the Doctor's care, for once not even bothering to look whether the man was attaching any of his creatures to it; oblivious – with the help of a dose of painkiller – to anything the Denobulan was doing to him. He had too much on his mind to care about how many ribs he had cracked or bruises collected. He had to find a way for them, all of them, to get out of this situation unscathed. Too many people he had grown close to risked suffering because of it. He wanted to protect them from pain, just as he protected them from hostile aliens.

"Mr. Tucker is strong, and strong-willed, Lieutenant," Phlox murmured softly as he checked his finished work. "I am confident he will not give up fighting."

Malcolm resisted the urge to heave a sigh - not a good idea with cracked ribs, even with painkiller coursing though his veins. He blinked and shifted his eyes to Phlox, trying to draw as much comfort as he could from his kind gaze. Although he had a reputation of not getting along with the ship's doctor, they both knew their skirmishes were really part of – by now – a well-established game. He respected the man, as, he was sure, Phlox respected him.

"I may have made a mistake in evaluating the Commander's psychological fitness," Phlox suddenly said in a voice that almost cracked with emotion. "I apologise, Mr. Reed. You could have both been killed."

The confession was as heart-felt as it was unexpected. Malcolm, who, on account of Trip's actions, had actually spared the Denobulan a few uncomplimentary thoughts when down on the planet, couldn't find a trace of anger left in him. All he felt was weariness.

"I am still alive, Doctor," he rasped. He cleared his throat. "And so is Trip. And I wouldn't be so ready to take blame."

Indeed, if truth be told, neither Phlox nor Archer could have anticipated that they would find that strange man on their path. Because somehow Malcolm felt that despite Trip's suffering, without that enigmatic bloke his friend would have carried out his mission just fine.

Phlox sighed for them both. "Is the taping comfortable?" he asked, stepping back. "Can you breathe all right?"

"Yes, thank you."

"I'm putting you off duty for at least one full day."

Malcolm rolled his eyes. "I'm sure a good night's sleep will be more than enough to…"

"You need rest," the Doctor predictably warned, interrupting him.

Malcolm accepted his help wriggling into a sweatshirt; he re-emerged to pleading eyes.

"I already have one patient to worry about, Mr. Reed."

That did it. "All right, Doctor. I could probably use a day off." Malcolm pushed with both hands on the bed's edge and carefully lowered himself to the floor. "Would you call me, though, if there are any changes in the Commander's condition?" he asked gravely, trying not to think that a change could also be for the worse. He cast another look at the drawn curtain.

"Of course, Lieutenant."

Malcolm nodded and left.

"And don't forget to eat something," he heard Phlox call after him as he was going through the sickbay doors.

TBC