Disclaimer: I don't own Enterprise. The apple pie belongs to me, though :).
AN: This is my take on the events of Shuttlepod I. Takes place immediately after Malcolm and Trip were released from sickbay.
PLEASE NOTE: This is Slash – mild and not graphic at all, but it's about the boys in love, so if that's not your thing, you may not want to read on.
Big thanks to Gabi for betaing!
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Cold.
Trip rolled over on his back and opened his eyes.
He couldn't sleep when it was cold.
His quarters were dark save for the starlight, and everything was just as it was supposed to be. His locker. His ancient diving helmet. His desk, not too tidy, but not cluttered as it sometimes became when an Engineering emergency demanded his undivided attention. The shelves over his bed. The framed photo of his family, all Tuckers huddled together so that they would fit into the picture, himself with his hand behind his back to hide the timer. That had been on Dad's birthday, his last extended visit back home before Enterprise left spacedock.
He sighed. It was really no good. He didn't want to move, but he knew that he would never get to sleep like this. He shivered, suddenly reminded of the time when he and Andy had spent their first winter at Aunt Sammy's place in Maine. Five-year-old Trip had pressed his nose against the window, watching in awe as white stuff floated down from the sky and covered the world with frosting. He had never noticed his mama outside with the camera until it was too late, and the picture survived until this day, much to the mirth of his parents and siblings.
At the time, the icy feeling on his skin had been fun. Now, Trip thought he wouldn't care if he never saw snow again in his life.
He sat up and shook out the two extra blankets, then wrapped them around his feet and tucked them under his legs. That done, he lay down again, trying to minimize the amount of bare skin exposed to the air by burying his face in the pillow and pulling the comforter over his head. He couldn't really breathe that way, but for a few moments he was actually warm enough.
Then the shivering started again.
With a sigh, Trip emerged from the pillow, pushed the comforter aside, wiggled around until the blankets released his feet and swung his legs over the side of the bunk. Sleep wasn't going to happen for him tonight, that much was clear. Well, bugger it, as Malcolm would say. He'd happily forgo the sleeping part if he could only find a way to feel warm again. Maybe another hot shower would do the trick, he thought, then remembered that he had already used up his allotment of hot water for today. So much for that.
Trip thought of Malcolm, tucked into his own bed, no doubt fast asleep, and was suddenly jealous. Malcolm wouldn't need any extra blankets to keep himself warm, or wear two t-shirts and a sweater as Trip currently was. He pictured Malcolm leaving sickbay, going to his neat and orderly quarters, getting out his neat and orderly pajamas – no doubt they were button-down and plaid – putting his old uniform into the clothes hamper and lying down with his one, Starfleet issue blanket to go to sleep. No, Malcolm wouldn't lie awake shivering after adjusting the temperature in his quarters to equal a Floridian summer night. Malcolm wouldn't break out in goosebumps when there was no reason why he should be feeling cold.
Malcolm didn't need a phase pistol pointed at him to stop him from climbing into an airlock to die.
Trip got up from his bed, and after a moment's hesitation picked up the comforter. It was unlikely that he would meet anyone in the corridors; at 0200 ship's time, everyone except for the gamma shift crew was either in bed sleeping or somewhere minding their own business. And even if someone saw him padding down the hallway with a comforter around his shoulders, the prospect of walking to the messhall without it was even less appealing. He wrapped the soft fabric tightly around himself. The deck plating was cold under his socked feet as he crossed his dark quarters and stepped out into the hallway.
The air was cooler out here and Trip shivered again, tightening his grip on the comforter. Maybe he should just get himself back inside and into bed. He had been pathetic enough back on the damned shuttlepod. He didn't need to make a fool of himself any more than he already had, even if there was no one here to witness it but himself.
Crawl into a hole and die.
Trip was almost surprised to find that his feet had started walking as if on their own volition, carrying him in the direction of the messhall. The idea had been that if he couldn't get warm from the outside, he might find something to warm him from the inside, and hot cocoa seemed just the thing to get the job done. Maybe there was even a slice of pie or cake left. Apple pie sounded nice; a warm slice of apple pie with a crumbly crust on top. He usually had a side helping of vanilla ice cream with his apple pie, but he'd leave that out for today. Just the warm pie, and hot cocoa to wash it down. Sugar bomb, Malcolm would call that kind of snack, and it was just what he needed right now.
The comforter was slipping from his shoulders, and Trip paused to shrug it back into place. He had arrived at the junction where he had to go right to get to the messhall, and there was only one door he hadn't passed yet. Malcolm's door.
The deck under his feet was beginning to feel icy again, the cold air of the hallway biting into his bare hands.
Tweny-one degrees, Tucker. Twenty-one degrees isn't cold. When you're wearing enough layers of clothes to pass for an onion, it's actually quite cozy.
His hands and feet weren't convinced, and Trip resumed walking. Walking slowly. In fact, he walked only a few steps before he stopped again to shrug up the comforter. Damn thing refused to stay in place no matter how tightly he held on to it.
Next to the door, he paused, letting out a long sigh. Then he drew his shoulders back and walked a few brisk steps. Stopped. Turned. Hesitated. And pushed the door chime.
If he was going to make a fool of himself, he might as well go for it and do the job right.
Trip had expected, even hoped for the door to stay closed, giving him enough time to realize that Malcolm was fast asleep and that he was being an idiot, standing here in the hallway wrapped into a comforter and pushing a door chime for no apparent reason.
Time to run away and crawl back into the hole where he belonged.
But the door opened almost immediately, and suddenly Trip found himself face-to-face with Malcolm Reed. 'No plaid pajamas' was the first thing that came to his mind, and it almost made him laugh. Malcolm wore gray sweat pants and a matching sweater that seemed to be at least one size too big for him. Something was written across the front of the bulky garment, but it was too dark for Trip to make out the letters. He noticed that Malcolm's hair was tousled as if he had just gotten up.
That's because he has just gotten up, stupid.
"Trip?" Malcolm said. His voice didn't sound as if he had just been roused from a sound sleep; in fact, Malcolm sounded quite awake.
"Hi." Trip wondered what must be going through Malcolm's head right now. "Sorry if I woke you up."
"You didn't." Malcolm paused, and it registered with Trip that Malcolm had called him, not "sir", not "Commander", but by his nickname. Maybe Malcolm thought that rank and titles didn't apply to madmen wrapped in patchwork comforters who turned up at his door in the middle of the night. "Is everything all right?"
Maybe it was the use of his nickname, maybe the fact that Malcolm wasn't wearing plaid pajamas; Trip wasn't sure. All he knew was that he didn't feel compelled to answer with the usual casual nod. Yeah, everything's just fine.
"I can't sleep."
Malcolm nodded, business-like. "Want to come in?"
He didn't wait for Trip's reply and stepped back, allowing Trip to enter the room. Malcolm's quarters were dark, and when the door slid shut behind him, taking the light of the corridor with it, there was a sudden, instant blackness that startled Trip. The few times he had been in here, he hadn't noticed that Malcolm's quarters had no windows.
Something rustled next to him, then there was a soft click and the light reappeared.
"Sorry about that," Malcolm said.
"That's okay."
Malcolm's quarters were neat and orderly, and somehow didn't seem cramped even though they were only slightly larger than Trip's tiny dorm room back at the Academy. Maybe it was because Malcolm hardly had any of his personal things on display. There was the row of books on the shelf, a pair of worn brown slippers in front of the bed and a black-and-white picture of the seaside on the wall, but that was it.
Trip noticed Malcolm's eyes on him and was embarrassed to be caught staring, but Malcolm didn't seem to have taken offense.
"Take a seat," he nodded at the small sofa.
"Thanks." Trip sat down, the comforter still around his shoulders.
"I was going to make myself a cup of tea," Malcolm said. "Would you like one?"
Trip thought of the hot chocolate and the apple pie, and realized that neither of them seemed quite as appealing as his mind had made them out to be. More likely than not, they'd only have made him feel full. "Tea sounds good."
Malcolm nodded again in his business-like manner. As he went over to his small kitchen unit, Trip saw that Malcolm's feet were socked like his, and that the socks didn't match. One was gray, the other one blue. A chuckle escaped him before he could stop himself.
Kettle in hand, Malcolm turned around. He said nothing, only looked at him and Trip's amusement faded as quickly as it had come. Malcolm didn't seem to mind that he was laughing; if anything, he looked mildly curious at Trip's sudden mirth. But it was only now that Trip noticed the gray face, the tension in Malcolm's stance. The dark circles under his eyes.
"Y'look tired," he said quietly, and belatedly realized that Malcolm would think that it was his weary appearance that had made Trip laugh. One eyebrow twitched, and there was a small smirk on Malcolm's lips as he turned back to the sink.
"I'm glad someone finds it funny."
"I didn't mean..." Trip ran a hand through his hair. "I mean, I wasn't laughin' at you, Malcolm."
Open mouth, insert foot. Sometimes he was amazed at his own ability to shoot off his mouth without consulting his brain first.
Luckily, though, Malcolm didn't seem to be offended. He set the kettle on its base, flicked the switch and turned around again, arms crossed in front of his chest.
"Just giggling at the universe in general, then?"
Trip smiled. "It's been gigglin' at us long enough. Time to giggle back, don't you think?"
Malcolm laughed softly. "Maybe."
They were silent for a while after that, and Trip was relieved to find that it was a companionable silence, not one born of the awkwardness he had felt back on the shuttlepod. It was why he had spent so much time fiddling with some piece of equipment or other, why he had kept poking the transceiver array even after admitting that it was a hopeless case. As long as he had something to do with his hands, he wouldn't feel uncomfortable... or so he had thought. In fact, he had felt very uncomfortable indeed, especially when Malcolm pulled out that tome of his and announced that he was planning to finish it until they were back aboard. Trip hadn't even thought of bringing a book himself.
"Black, Rooibos or cinnamon?" Malcolm asked. Trip raised his head to find him holding out three different boxes of tea bags for his inspection. "I'm afraid I've only got three flavors," Malcolm added.
"Um, black. Thanks," Trip said.
Malcolm took out two tea bags – Trip noted that he chose black tea himself – and draped them over the rim of two mugs. It was then that Trip saw him shiver. The tremor lasted only about half a second and was instantly suppressed, but Trip caught it all the same.
So Malcolm was cold, too. And the universe was still giggling at them.
The kettle beeped and Malcolm picked it up to pour hot water into the two mugs. He didn't seem to have noticed that Trip had seen the trembling of his hands.
"I'd ask you if you'd like something stronger to spice it with, but I don't think the doctor would approve of that yet."
"That's okay." In fact, the idea of "something stronger" didn't appeal to Trip at all. The Kentucky Bourbon had been strong enough, and it hadn't warmed him at all. If anything, it had provided a poor substitute for warmth, a brief tingling that quickly faded away again, leaving him even colder than before. Trip wasn't sure he'd ever come to care for its taste again.
Malcolm came over, the two mugs in his hands, and handed him one. As he reached out to accept the beverage, Trip happened to glance at the print on Malcolm's sweater, and almost dropped his tea.
Malcolm grinned and blushed at the same time. "A gift from my sister," he said. "She's got a weird sense of humor sometimes."
'Sometimes I aim to please, but mostly I shoot to kill.' Trip chuckled. "I like it."
He half expected one of Malcolm's haughty you-would looks. Instead, Malcolm looked strangely pleased. "Me too," was all he said.
His hands trembled again, and a little of the hot liquid splashed out of the mug and onto his fingers. Malcolm glanced down at it, suddenly very still. Trip looked at him, taking in the mussed hair, the tired face, the crumpled and baggy clothes. The shade of a beard on his chin.
Hair and fingernails continue to grow after you've died. And they also grow when you're alive. Alive and freezing, alive and hurting. But alive.
"Malcolm," he said. Malcolm raised his head.
"Yes?" he asked quietly.
Trip lifted a corner of the comforter, very aware of the loss of protection as he did so. "C'mon," he said.
Malcolm stood there for a moment, looking at him with an expression that gave away none of his thoughts. Then he carefully set down his mug next to Trip's, wiped his burned hand on his sweater and sat down. Neither of them spoke as Trip wrapped the comforter around both of them, moving closer so that Malcolm could lean against him. There was another small shiver, and it ran through both of them this time. Their feet touched as they sat on the sofa like they had on the shuttlepod; huddled together, knees drawn to their chests, sharing the blanket this time.
"Bloody freezing," Malcolm whispered and Trip felt a hand reaching for his, their fingers intertwining.
"I know."
He caught the hand when it tried to pull back and held onto it. Malcolm's calloused palms felt strange and unfamiliar, and yet he could feel the warmth that was quickly building at the touch.
"I'm fed up with bein' cold," he said. And then, very softly, not sure if Malcolm could even hear him: "I'm sorry."
Malcolm moved his head a little. "What for?"
"Climbin' into the airlock. Yellin' at you. Givin' you crap about your letters. All that."
Malcolm said nothing for a while. Then he sighed. "You were right."
"Malcolm..."
"No." Malcolm turned to look at him. "I don't mean your brilliant idea to climb into the airlock. But you were right about the rest, especially the letters." He glanced away again, but not before Trip saw the shame in his eyes. "If you must know, I deleted most of them while you were asleep."
Trip opened his mouth, but Malcolm shook his head. "It's not as if any of those women care whether I'm alive or not. I severely doubt that the majority of them remember my name." He smiled thinly. "Hell, I'm not even sure I got all of their names right. Not that it matters."
Trip was silent. Then he asked, "Why did you write to them then?"
Malcolm shrugged. "I don't know."
Trip couldn't think of anything to say and gripped Malcolm's hand tighter, stroking the cool skin with his fingers. Malcolm moved a little until his head was resting on Trip's shoulder, his hair tickling Trip's cheek.
"This is nice," he said quietly.
"Yeah," Trip said. "It is."
He could feel Malcolm's warmth through the layers of clothes between them and wondered when he had last been so close to another human being. He wondered if anyone had ever been so close to this human being. He wondered what Malcolm would do if Trip told him that he wasn't going to back off again.
Shoot to kill. It was only when Malcolm turned his head that Trip realized he had spoken the last three words aloud.
"Who are you planning to shoot, Trip?" Malcolm asked.
Trip grinned a little. "Not me. You."
"You're not going to shoot yourself, but me?"
Trip shook his head, wishing he could have thought of a more eloquent way of putting this. "I mean, it's you who's gonna do the shootin'."
Malcolm's face became more interested by the second. "Then who am I going to shoot?"
Trip sighed. He had come here with the intention of making a fool of himself, and it seemed that he was progressing very well in that respect. "Me," he said.
Malcolm blinked. "I'm going to shoot you?"
Trip nodded, suddenly very aware that Malcolm's face was only inches from his own. He could feel the warm puffs of air when Malcolm breathed, remembered how those lips had looked when they were slowly turning blue from the cold. Very much unlike now, when they were soft and warm under his own.
The kiss was light and very gentle, only a brief touching of lips. When it was over, Trip leaned back again to look at Malcolm. The other man hadn't moved, and his gray eyes were wide.
"Make it quick," Trip said. He wanted it to come out lightly, as a joke, and failed miserably. In all their time on the shuttlepod, he couldn't remember being so scared. Malcolm was still sitting there, looking at him with absolutely no expression on his face, and Trip couldn't help thinking that something had gone terribly wrong.
Malcolm didn't want this, and he wasn't one to forgive or forget, Trip knew that. And he did shoot to kill.
He moved away, disentangling his hand from Malcolm's and wondered how he could get out of here without looking as if he were running away.
"I'm sorry, Malcolm, I... I'd better be goin'..."
A hand grabbed his forearm and Trip stopped. "Malcolm," he began, and broke off again when he saw that Malcolm was smiling. "Malcolm?"
"Don't worry, Mr. Tucker," Malcolm said as he leaned forward, and there was no way Trip could have moved away even if Malcolm hadn't held on to his arm. "It won't hurt at all."
Malcolm's lips touched his, Malcolm's hand let go of his forearm and slipped around his waist, holding on to him. The kiss was still gentle, exploring, and yet when Trip opened his mouth he could feel warmth pooling in his stomach, flooding his body. He reached out and pulled Malcolm closer, wanting to keep that warmth close and never let go.
After a while, they broke the kiss. Trip left his arms around Malcolm's waist and was thrilled when Malcolm didn't pull away and rested his head on Trip's shoulder instead.
"Stay," he said quietly, and Trip nodded.
They stretched out next to each other; or rather on each other, as there was hardly enough room for one man, let alone two. Malcolm's head came to lie on his chest and Trip pulled the comforter over both of them, then slipped his arms around Malcolm, one hand finding its way into Malcolm's hair. As he began to stroke it gently, Malcolm raised his head and smiled at him.
"You do know that we're going to be awfully hot like this?"
Trip grinned. "Don't mind if we are."
Malcolm let his head fall back to where it had been. "In that case, don't ever let go, Mr. Tuckah."
Trip tightened his grip on the warm, living body in his arms. "Ain't gonna get rid of me now, Mal."
Malcolm smiled.
fin
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