Have a good start of 2011!

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Trip stopped in front of his captain's door and glanced right and left. In fifteen minutes he was due in Engineering. His feet had taken him here – and his heart too, to be sure – but he was still wary of raising his hand to the bell. After Sickbay, Archer had buried himself in his quarters, and no one had seen him in all of twenty-four hours, not even his steward, who'd been ordered to leave the food tray on the floor in the corridor. T'Pol had reported hearing the water-polo ball bouncing off the wall that separated their quarters for a while, but then that had ceased too.

The worst thing was that Trip didn't have any good news to report. Phlox was still in the dark as to the cause of this weird phenomenon, and T'Pol had failed to come up with anything to help him. So his was really just a friendly how-are-you-doing visit. His cowardly self suggested that it might embarrass Archer.

Nah. Jon needed a friend, right now, and if he – Trip – kept away, the man would feel like his closest friend had betrayed him. Squaring his shoulders, he pressed the bell button.

"Who is it?" a voice he didn't quite recognise replied after a long moment. The pitch was wrong, slightly higher than normal.

"Capt'n?" Trip wondered aghast. Great start, his cowardly self whispered. He winced. "It's me, Trip."

"Go away."

The streak of stubbornness was quite familiar, though. "Capt'n, please," Trip insisted, forehead on the door. "You can't hide in there forever."

There was a silence for a few moments before the voice came back glumly, "A few more days will be enough. Then I'll be able to go around the ship without anyone actually seeing me."

Trip groaned inside. Unexpectedly, the door swished open, startling him so much that he jerked his head back.

"Then maybe someone will accidentally trample me," Archer went on, "and put me out of my misery."

All Trip could do not to gape was blink a couple of times and force out a choked, "May I come in?"

"You'd better, before anyone sees," Archer muttered.

Trip stepped inside the room, and the door closed behind him. He had prepared himself for this, making mental calculations according to T'Pol's "shrinkage rate", but it was still a shock, and he knew he wasn't quite capable of keeping it off his face. Archer, who had been taller than him, now came only up to his chest. Not even. The man must have lost… Well, he'd lost about the predicted twenty-four inches. He had shrunk proportionately, so that it wasn't like having a young boy in front of him: this was the same adult Jonathan Archer, just smaller.

"Capt'n," Trip finally was able to sputter.

He noticed that a pile of uniforms lay abandoned on a corner of the bed. Archer had put on a sweat suit, rolling up both sleeves and pant legs. They formed round bulges around his wrists and ankles, reminding Trip of a sheared French poodle, and the man still looked like he was wearing something three sizes too big. Porthos was in a corner of the room, muzzle on his paws. The beagle usually came running to Trip, but now he didn't even raise his head in greeting; only his eyes lifted, and he gave a very human sigh.

"Even he is in a bad mood," Archer said in that strange voice. He went to sit at his desk, where his breakfast lay abandoned like the uniforms, and poured himself a glass of whisky. "Won't offer you one, since you're going on duty," he muttered before downing his in one gulp.

Trip swallowed saliva instead. This was worse than he had expected. He'd never known Archer to react this way to a problem. Only once, that he could remember, had he buried himself in his quarters: when he'd thought they had annihilated that Paragaan colony. But then their mission had been revoked, they had been heading back to Earth, so he'd had some sort of excuse for slacking in his command duties.

"Capt'n, we'll get out of this one too," he said, slowly lowering himself on the bed, "as we always have."

"Sure," Archer chuckled mirthlessly. And he poured himself another glass.

Trip watched him in silence for a long moment. Archer's face was averted but he could still see the dark circles around his eyes; for sure he hadn't had much sleep the previous night. Worse than that, the man looked blank, as if his spirit had left him, and his mind had dulled. That last probably wasn't far from the truth, given the level of the whisky left in the bottle.

This was no good. A wave of anger drowned Trip's initial sympathy. "Captain, you have a ship to run," he said firmly.

"Right," Archer growled, turning abruptly like a wounded animal to shoot him a venomous glance. "And how do you suppose I do that?" He let out a sarcastic snort. "By tomorrow, I'll need someone to pick me up, if I want to sit on the Captain's chair."

"Well, someone will, then," Trip shot back, "or I'll build you a step ladder." Damn it! He couldn't stand seeing Archer, the fearless warrior, like this. "By tomorrow, maybe Phlox will have found a cure! You can't just sit here and brood – worse, piss yourself off!"

Archer gave him another murderous look. "If you've come here to tell me what to do – or what not to do – you might as well leave."

Sensing the tension, Porthos let out a muffled whine. Trip glanced at him and felt bad, for the dog looked like a child who sees his parents arguing.

"T'Pol will run the ship," Archer continued in a darker voice. "She'll do a better job than… a diminutive man."

"Oh, come off it, Capt'n," Trip exploded. "Size doesn't matter!"

Trip heard himself say that, met Archer's eyes, and something sparked between them. They both guffawed, and the tension eased.

"I'm serious," Trip said mildly once the mirth had died down. "Think of Napoleon. Think of… Hell, think of Malcolm. He doesn't need to tower over his men to inspire respect." He shrugged. "T'Pol is a fine officer, but she lacks… a certain intuition. You are still the best person to run the show, and no one will argue that."

Archer's face crumpled. "I'm scared," he said hoarsely.

Trip felt his heart clench.

"Not of dying – God knows I've been prepared – but this? Where will it stop? Will I keep shrinking until I disappear, until I am no bigger than a damn germ?" Archer scrunched his eyes closed.

"Capt'n, I can't say," Trip choked out past the lump in his throat. "But I can tell ya that I'll be there for you, no matter what."

The mood had suddenly dropped again. It felt heavy and oppressing. Trip gave himself a mental slap. He had to shake out of this, and be strong for both of them.

"Do you really want to spend what might be your last hours alone and half drunk?" he forced out, managing a steady voice.

Archer looked up from his glass, startled. "You really think I should be in charge? You're not humouring me, are you?"

"Of course not." Trip jerked his head sideways, letting a mischievous smile play on his face. "Crew might crack a few jokes when you're turned the other way and not hearing, but I think you're a big enough man to take that."

Archer smirked; then, to Trip's relief, responded to his pun. "You might also have to build a high chair for the Mess."

"Anything you say, Sir." Trip smiled and got up. "I'll see you around, then?"

Archer sighed. "See you around."

The turbolift doors opened and Malcolm glanced in that direction to see who was there. There was no one. No, wait… He stretched his neck, his eyes having to track lower than expected. Blimey.

"Captain on the Bridge," he blurted out instinctively. He felt a blush rise at warp speed. Bloody hell, in two years he'd never ever said that once! Not after that first time when Archer had pointed out to him, in polite humour, that this wasn't the Bridge of the HMS Victory.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," Archer commented through clenched teeth, with a look that would've knocked him unconscious if it could.

"Sorry, Sir," Malcolm muttered.

He glanced around surreptitiously. Hoshi and Travis, the only two other officers on the Bridge, were suddenly finding their stations captivating. It felt totally contrived. The awkwardness was almost unbearable. Malcolm expected Archer to make a beeline for his ready room, but instead, to his admiring surprise, he went to the Captain's chair and sat down on it. Or rather, he perched himself on the edge of the seat. Restraining a wince, Malcolm realised that if the man had sat down properly his feet wouldn't have reached the floor.

Archer fixed his gaze on the planet that filled the viewscreen, boring into it as if he hoped he could wrench out its secret. His face was a mask. The Captain was carefully schooling his features, but Malcolm, who knew all about hiding feelings behind an impassable facade – he could hold master classes on the subject, for heaven's sake! – easily read Archer's disturbing mix of emotions. A shiver travelled down his spine. Damn it. He was his Security Officer; he should have prevented this. It was what he was paid to do. As long as the Captain had remained locked in his quarters, Malcolm had been able to keep the thought in a corner of his mind, but now that the evidence of his failure and the seriousness of the situation were in front of his eyes, it struck him like a blow in the stomach.

There was a clearing of the throat, and Malcolm refocused across the Bridge. Hoshi had lifted her gaze.

"It's good to see you, Captain," she said softly.

Travis looked at her; then swivelled his chair to cast a quick, "Yes, Sir. Indeed," before turning back.

Archer's face warmed for a moment. "So long as you still can," he said with a poor attempt at humour. No one even broke into a smile, so he added a quiet, "Thank you."

His voice had a slightly different pitch than usual, and Malcolm caught Hoshi's worried glance. He wished he could give her silent reassurance. A Security Officer should make people feel safe and in good hands, but he couldn't. He knew the linguist was as good as he was at reading behind a mask – in this case, his own – but right now the last thing he felt was reassured.

Abruptly, Archer stood up. "Lieutenant," he said quietly, and headed for the ready room.

Malcolm, heart pounding, slipped out of his seat. He couldn't think of standing alone with this Archer in a restricted space, having to talk to him, look at him face to… Hell.

The door closed behind them, and the Captain turned. His green eyes sought him. Malcolm was vaguely aware of being as rigid as a broomstick while his mind formed the conscious thought that he was looking down on someone who, up until twenty-four hours before, had regularly made him self-conscious about his lack of centimetres.

"Relax, Lieutenant," Archer said, not bothering to hide the truth of how awkward this was for both of them. "I'm still the same man, more or less."

Malcolm made a show of letting his shoulders slump a bit. "Aye, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir," he blurted out.

"Yeah, you said that before," Archer commented deadpan.

Malcolm winced. This wasn't the last "I'm sorry" of the evening either, if he ever found the courage. He watched Archer begin to pace; the man automatically ducked his head a couple of times before realising the ceiling wasn't going to pose any danger to him now. Catching himself, Archer turned to mutter a mirthless, "Habits..." He looked fractionally more at ease, now that he had broken the ice, and Malcolm envied him, for he would still choose a battle to the death over this conversation.

"Sir, is there anything I can do?" Malcolm forced out, eager to come to the point.

"I don't know."

Archer stopped at the window and leaned with a shoulder against the bulkhead beside it.

The planet looked so innocuous out there. A harmless, round brownish sphere, like so many they had come across since the beginning of their mission.

"I've been thinking, and you know what? I believe there is a blank in my memories of that away mission."

"Captain?" Malcolm almost took a step towards Archer, stopping only at the thought that any proximity would accentuate their difference in height. "Have you told the Doctor, or T'Pol?"

"No, not yet," Archer said. "I'm not certain of it. I want to make sure I know what I'm talking about, because I could send them on a wild goose chase, and Phlox and T'Pol can't really waste any time if they are to try and stop me from-" He checked himself, and turned to Malcolm. "Did you… experience anything strange on that planet? Any weird sensations? Any of your famous gut feelings?"

Malcolm tightened his lips. All he had felt had been a weight on his stomach. "I'm afraid not, Sir," he said, shaking his head. "I wasn't feeling all that well. I… hadn't digested well."

Archer's eyebrows shot up. "Is that why you...?"

"It appears so."

"You could've told me, Malcolm. I would have taken someone else with me."

Right. But of course Reeds don't tell when they are sick. Reeds endure and carry out their duty without complaining.

"I became ill when we were already on the planet," Malcolm lied. Reeds didn't lie either, but this was a white lie. Or was it? You might have prevented this, if you hadn't fainted like a bloody idiot – his inner voice reminded him.

"I am sorry, Sir. I failed in my duty to protect you." There, he had said it.

Archer sighed impatiently. "Stop saying you're sorry. You didn't fail me, for heaven's sake; you were sick! And we don't know that you could've done anything, anyway."

Archer's strange pitch and height made his outburst rather surreal. It wasn't the same thing as standing in front of someone who looked down on you. Maybe the man had to get used to this and adjust the way he delivered his emotions. After all, he – Malcolm – didn't have any trouble inspiring respect and even fear in his men. But then again, he had lived with his lack of height since childhood.

Archer's eyes narrowed. "Something is missing from the picture, I'm almost certain of it, and yet… I'm not," he concluded in frustration.

There was a long moment of silence. It felt endless, but in the end, Archer finally broke it.

"I guess you may go," he said to Malcolm's relief. "If you happen to remember anything else, anything at all, please report to me immediately."

"Aye, Sir."

Malcolm turned without ado and pressed the door release, leaving his Captain to gaze pensively on the brown sphere outside his window.

TBC

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