Malcolm Reed, On Applied Murphaic Law

Anything that can go wrong, will

II

Lubarsky's Law of Cybernetic Entomology

There is always one more bug

Jonathan's head felt like it was stuffed with sand, and he was aware of something digging painfully into his left temple. He groaned; the noise was raspy, and he noticed that it didn't sound right for the enclosed space of the transporter platform. Sickbay? It didn't smell right, he noted. And none of the animals were chirping in the background. Though he was feeling surer every second that he really didn't want to open his eyes, the floor was very rough and uncomfortable, and the sooner he figured out what the hell had happened, the sooner he could get out of here.

Simply fail to transport, huh? T'Pol, you're going to owe me a lot more then five bars of gold when I get my hand on you! Waking up to find that you've had a bad transporter experience, or have a head that feels like a football, or a body that feels as though it may have been used for a dance floor by a group of Klingons is bad enough, Jonathan felt. Waking up to find that you have all of these symptoms, but do not, in all actuality, have a ship beneath you, is something else entirely.

Instead of the reassuring matte grey of the interior of his ship, he found harsh sunlight sent stabbing pains through his squinting eyes. Every muscle protested painfully as he pushed himself up off the burning sand. He looked for any sign of Malcolm as he struggled to focus his still-groggy mind.

Rocks rose up on all sides of him, looming and somehow menacing in the oppressive silence. The sandy ground here was a very un-Terran pinkish-orange and eroded, roughly cylindrical rock columns rose sporadically out of the semi-desert floor, some towering as much as six meters into the air. The bright sunlight bled their colours into a roughly homogonous pale rust. Nothing moved under his straining eyes, and nothing registered on his tricorder as he slowly scanned out to the small instrument's limits. Did Malcolm make it to the ship? He saw no sign of him here, but he could not rely on that and assume him safe.

"Malcolm? Lieutenant Reed!" His voice fell flat in the arid surroundings. Nothing stirred at the sound; he saw no flashes of movement, heard no response that indicated that there was anyone else out here to hear him.

Jonathan knew that once the twin suns finished their assent in the alien sky, it would reach unbearable temperatures. Dehydration could happen very quickly if he couldn't find shelter before then and the surrounding light-coloured rock face and columns would only act to intensify the heat; endlessly reflecting the sun's light throughout the basin. He still had the pack that Malcolm had insisted they all bring off the shuttlepod with them, which meant he had a canteen of water, a phase pistol, a few rations and a couple of very basic med supplies, along with his communicator. Not a very impressive total, to be sure. There was no way of knowing just how far he'd been transported in the accident; with luck, Malcolm had made it back to the ship, and he himself had only been transported a couple of kilometres away from the city.

Jonathan knew better then to rely on luck, however.

Jonathan pulled out is communicator, and turned up the gain as high as it would go before activating it. "Archer to Lieutenant Reed. Archer to Lieutenant Reed, come in." Static cracked unpleasantly over the open link, making him wince. He tried again, "Archer to Enterprise. T'Pol, can you hear me up there?" Still nothing. Keeping the communicator in hand, and calling every ten minutes or so, he did his best to take his bearing from the suns and set out, deeper into the rock maze.

IBM Pollyanna Principle

Machines should work; People should think

"…come in. Malcolm, please respond"

The voice grated painfully on his ears, the crackle and hiss of static was nearly unbearable to his throbbing head. A groan forced its way painfully through his lips, and he registered the unpleasant way his chest throbbed and burned with each breath he took. He tried to push himself up off the ground, only to collapse back against the gravel, when his arm buckled beneath him - it appeared his shoulder was damaged too. The static-filled transmission had stopped. This should be bothering him, he realized, but couldn't really remember why. Moving very carefully, he managed to roll over, and sit up carefully. Despite his care, the world spun dangerously when he moved, and he promptly leaned over to be sick. The unpleasant reality of his condition forced a few more neurons to fire tiredly, and slowly he began to clear the haze from his brain.

The voice had been Jona – the Captain's. Let's see. Alien planet? Check. Badly injured armoury officer, whilst the Captain remains relatively unscathed? Also check. So, he wasn't dreaming. And, oh yes - there was the sound of the universe giggling her tits off now. Someday, he hoped, people would stop thinking him paranoid, and allow him to actually do things the way he suggested in the first place. For one thing, he was damn sure that he wouldn't get injured nearly so bloody often. It bothered him that, because of the shear amount of time he'd been forced to spend in sickbay, he now knew Phlox in ways he had only dreamed of knowing other people. Well, one person, actually. It didn't help Malcolm's frustration any that the man he would rather have spent that time with, was also the one who was usually indirectly responsible for putting him in Phlox's care.

Yes, if Malcolm Reed listened closely enough, he could usually hear giggling. It often sounded like the Captain, right before something Malcolm had warned him about, actually happened.

Gingerly, he dug into one of the zippered pockets in the arm of his uniform for his communicator. Sliding it open, his first attempt to speak only resulted in a gravelly croak. Malcolm took a deep breath, forcing himself to focus through the remaining cobwebs, and tried again. His voice sounded like it was being forced over broken glass.

"Reed here… Where the hell are you, Captain?"

"Malcolm! What's your status?"

"I appear to be at the bottom of a small cliff. From the amount of rubble I'm laying on, and the way I bloody feel, I'd say I materialized at the top of it."

There was an obvious pause as the Captain took in this information. "How bad is your situation, Lieutenant?"

Suppressing a groan, Malcolm continued to carefully slide himself into a sitting position against the rock face. "Oh, fantastic. You, sir?"

"Lieutenant —" The Captain's voice was terse.

"A few cracked ribs, I think. My shoulder also appears to be in need of Phlox's torturous brand of attention. A few scrapes and bruises … Oh, and I'm pretty sure I've banged my head on the way down." Carefully shallow breathing seemed, Malcolm found, to be easing the pressure on his ribs somewhat. "The world seems to have stopped spinning for the moment, so I'm fairly sure there's no concussion."

"You're signal's strong. I'd say you can't be more then ten kilometres away from here. Do you still have your pack?"

Malcolm paused to take stock before responding. "Stand by. I think I see it." He put the communicator down carefully, and tried to twist onto his hands and knees. He caught the inside of his lower lip between his incisors and bit down; the discomfort providing a crude distraction from the burning ache as he slowly crawled the few yards to where he had seen the Starfleet issue material trapped under a pile of loose shale. He had to concentrate on making each muscle obey him, while he dug thorough the scree for the nearly indestructible silver casing of his pack, and he forced himself to ignore the constricting band around his chest and lungs that was the urge to breath deeply.

It was with three torn nails and a badly jammed finger that he finally managed to lift the battered, glinting case from its entombment, and the five minutes it took him to work it loose felt like an eternity. His thoughts kept drifting in a haze of adrenaline-induced detachment, and the sun beat down on the back of his head like a sledgehammer now that he was away from the sheltered overhang of the cliff and Malcolm could feel his limbs becoming clumsy and unwieldy in the enervating heat. He sat back on his heels, cradling the reassuringly solid weight of the case to his chest, allowing his mind to drift while he caught his breath. Malcolm felt strangely light-headed in his relief; after all, being trapped out here with nothing but his uniform and an empty phase pistol holster would –

Oh, shite – phase pistol!

Drawing on what he considered to be the Reed family's only useful legacy, Malcolm swore inventively, in a surprising array of Terran languages as he made his pain-filled way back to the rock wall. He was panting softly by the time he reached his communicator and reported. "I've lost my phase pistol somewhere on the way down I'm afraid." Then, sounding almost as an afterthought, "And it also looks like the catch on the pack must have released during my decent."

"Then I think you have bigger concerns then a lost phase pistol, Lieutenant, don't you? How exposed are you, in your current location?"

No, actually I don't understand the significance of having no water and no food while trapped on an alien planet. It's just that being eaten by a large predator is so much more immediate and threatening right now, and then I won't have time to worry about starvation. He bit the retort back with some effort, and forced himself to respond. "Not too bad, Sir. I'm in the shadow cast by the cliff, so I'm in no immediate danger of dehydration, at least for a few hours."

"Good. Stay where you are. I can probably use the communicator's signal to pinpoint you're location, as long as you leave the channel open. Stay conscious for me, Malcolm. I would really like to get a look at that head wound before we rule out a concussion."

I'm pretty fucking sure I know more about having a concussion then you do, you pillock. Malcolm couldn't quite keep the sarcastic edge from his voice. "Aye Sir."

I'll just sit here and wait on you're expert opinion, then, shall I? He knew he was being petulant, but this was quickly becoming the mission that broke the proverbial camel. Taking a deep breath, he added "I'll be fine, Sir. Reed out." Wriggling carefully, Malcolm tried to find a more comfortable position as he settled down to wait.

And if it took a great deal of effort to fight off the desire to sleep, he wasn't about to admit it to anyone.

-..-

The suns were beginning to set. Jonathan had removed a strip of his blue undershirt and tied it around his forehead, in an attempt to keep the sweat out of his eyes, as he struggled over the increasingly rocky wasteland. The smooth sandy floor had started to give way to treacherous rocks about four kilometres ago. The columns had given way to solid rock walls run through with narrow channels and wash-ways of scree and silt, which slowed him down to a crawl in places. It had taken him far longer then he liked to cover the distance, worry for Malcolm fuelling every step. He'd stopped twice to rest, pausing only long enough to check in with his Lieutenant and take a bit of water from his canteen, before pushing on again. He felt like he had staggered more then hiked the last kilometre or so and his legs burned with the exertion.

Just as the edge of the first sun began to dip below the horizon, he crested the rocky dune he'd been struggling up for the last half hour through loose rock and shale that kept shifting and sliding beneath his feet. Stopping at the top to catch his breath, he took a moment to try and take his bearings while he still had the suns' full light. Lining the sun's path up with two towering, petrified tree-vines below, he heard his communicator crackle to life.

"Nice to see you, Sir. What took you so long?"

Jonathan was too exhausted to do more then glare down the incline, to where he could just make out the blue of Malcolm's uniform against the rocks.

Smug bastard.

Getting down the dune on this side was, thankfully, easier then the climb up had been. It took twenty minutes, but Jonathan made it to his downed officer just as the first sun began to disappear beneath the skyline.

"Malcolm!" His Armoury Officer was propped awkwardly amongst the rubble of his passage down the cliff-side, thankfully still awake. Dark smudges stood out in sharp relief against Malcolm's naturally fair skin, making it look even paler then usual. His uniform, usually pressed and perfect, was rumpled and torn, and very, very dirty. His expression was almost petulant as he watched his superior officer take in his less-then-regulation appearance and Jonathan couldn't stop the smirk he was sure Malcolm saw when he glared back at him. He quickly got his expression under control and reached for the pack slung over his shoulder. "Let's get you an analgesic before we plan our next course."

The shot took effect quickly, leaving Malcolm with a euphoric, dreamy expression, his grey eyes blissfully half-closed as Jonathan squatted down beside his officer and offered his canteen to him. "Listen, Lieutenant. We've got only about an hour more before those suns finish setting, and we run out of twilight. We need to find something a bit more sheltered to spend the night. I know travel won't be comfortable for you right now, but I need to know; can you make it?"

The vague expression had cleared, leaving Malcolm's grey eyes alert and sharp. It was obvious the analgesic had helped enormously, and when he responded, his voice was once again clipped and professional. "I can make it, Sir. Don't worry about me; I'm sore, not dying."

Scrutinizing his tactical officer closely for any signs of bravado, Jonathan nodded. "Good. Then let's get going, shall we?" He put the canteen and med kit away carefully, before reaching down with both arms for Malcolm. With a tired grunt at the effort, he hauled him to his feet. "Ready?" At Malcolm's breathless nod, he said, "Then let's go."

They had headed toward the two petrified tree-things he had sighted earlier. The ground was a bit easier going that way, and despite Malcolm's assurances that he was fine, Jonathan could see how difficult this was for him. Catching Malcolm's eye, he smiled ruefully. "I don't care what Trip breaks next, this is the last time I am ever setting foot in Kreetassan space."

"We could always… force the …Commander to do his own… negotiations next time." Malcolm's small smile looked very wicked to Jonathan when he added, "I think… he would look… lovely in one of their …ritual costumes."

Jon laughed. "After this, I expect you'll have an entirely new proposal on my desk by next week for new away team security protocols."

"A few suggestions … have come to mind." Malcolm responded, dryly.

"Well, I might point out, the highly trained one of us is currently in much worse shape then his Captain. What does that say to your thoughts on my disregard for security?"

"It says to me that you're very, very lucky, Sir." Malcolm's voice was cold and professional again, all traces of his friendly banter gone. His face, which had been very pale, was now flushed.

Jonathan was exasperated with himself. It had been a bit tactless, given just how many of Malcolm's suggestions had proven out on this trip. Great progress you're making with him, Jon. Keep this up, and you might just win a date to be jettisoned out an airlock of your choice when we get back. "Malcolm, I was –"

But the Lieutenant had deliberately moved off, leaving Jonathan to ponder his friend's rather defensive attitude.

It turned out to be another kilometre to the base of the petrified trees. They had no air left for conversation now. The growing darkness was making footing very tricky, and they stumbled a lot on the uneven trail. When Malcolm had stumbled badly, and almost fallen for the fifth time, Jonathan had reached out and pulled Malcolm's arm across his shoulders, bringing him close to lean heavily on his taller frame. He was amazed when there was no protest. Sweat was beading along Malcolm's brow and trickling down his neck, despite the chill air. His skin was flushed, and Jonathan worried it wasn't all from the exertion.

Concern for Malcolm wasn't enough to completely distract him from the feel of his body pressed against his own. He could feel the strong muscles in Malcolm's body shifting beneath the fabric that separated them, and every breath Malcolm took send vibrations radiating out between them. It seemed to him, in his hyper awareness that Malcolm seemed to actually shift closer to him, seeking his heat against the chill. Think about Starfleet..! There's nothing more boring then Starfleet reports. Biting the inside of his lip, he tried concentrating on how he would classify the exact colour of the alien sand when he wrote up this incident for the brass. What the hell do you call something that's sort of purplish-orange? Malcolm seemed to be even closer now, and his body shuddered lightly against him in the evening chill. Jonathan groaned internally.

I am so very, very screwed.

Hoare's Law of Large Problems

Inside every large problem, is a small problem struggling to get out

The sort of vee-shaped hollow at the base of the trees was made in part from what once must have been strange, arboreal roots covered by millennia of fallen rock and debris. The hollow was only about two and a half meters across, and little more then one meter deep. At six foot four, Jonathan resigned himself to what would undoubtedly be a cramped and uncomfortable night.

Both men sank wearily to the ground, propped against each other and the back wall of their shelter. Soft gasps eventually levelled off, and Jonathan tried to roused his rubbery limbs to get them set for the night. It was obvious from the shallow pants and tight expression on Malcolm's face that reserves he'd used to get himself this far, were played out. The chill night air was beginning to register on sweat-damp skin, and Jonathan knew it would get a lot colder before the dawn finally came.

With a muttered oath, he dragged his protesting body away from the comfortable heat of Malcolm's side. "Malcolm? Malcolm!" Jonathan had to shake him sharply before he responded. When the other man finally looked up, Jonathan continued carefully, worried at Malcolm's lack of focus and slow response, "I'm going to have to see if I can find some loose rocks outside to use for warmth – they'll hold their heat longer piled in a compact heap then the exposed wall. I'll be very close, and I won't be gone long. When I get back, I want to have a better look at that head wound of yours."

"…Not necessary… I assure you, Captain." Jonathan thought his breathing was definitely shallower then it was an hour ago. The analgesic must be wearing off. It was a long way for him to hike, with all that bruising.

Jonathan snorted, but smiled good-naturedly, a little relieved by this very predictable stance. "Stubborn Brit. I'll be right back."

It was getting less agreeable outside their meagre shelter by the minute, and Jonathan was thankfully it didn't take him long to find enough rocks for his purpose. The suns had now finished setting, and the rising wind was skirling unpleasantly around the basin floor, whipping up small dust devils of fine, abrading sand. Thin moonlight lit up the strange landscape, making it even more alien then before. The pale silver light bleached everything of its colour, turning orange sand beige, and rusty rock a kaki-brown smear in the darkness. Jonathan finished placing the last armload of rocks in the most protected corner of the cave, piling them carefully to try and maximize their heat retention. He could see Malcolm unmoving outline no more than a meter away, his presence only detectable as a lighter patch of darkness against the gloom.

The phase pistol heated the rocks reluctantly, but after a few minutes, they had begun to throw enough heat to make the confined space comfortable. The resultant glow was almost like a real campfire, except with a steady, un-flickering light. It was comforting, somehow, reminding him of camping trips with his dad as a boy, out in Montana.

"Alright Malcolm, let's get a look at that head wound first." Seeing him about to protest, he quickly knelt in front of him. He reached out to cradle Malcolm's cheek and waited until he looked up at him. The skin was hot under his hands, and his eyes looked glazed. Oh, shit. Staring intently, he admonished, "I'd at least like to clean it out, if nothing else." His voice was gentle, almost coaxing his feverish Lieutenant. Jonathan was aware of the soft quality of the skin beneath his palm, but at that moment he was more intent on keeping Malcolm's gaze, trying to determine how sick he might be.

He saw Malcolm's confused gaze flicker quickly to his lips and back, so fast he thought it might be his own wishful thinking. He felt Malcolm lean almost imperceptibly closer, watching him intently. The moment seemed to stretch impossibly in the silence, and Jon found himself holding his breath, unsure of what was happening. Suddenly, Malcolm blinked, startled, and pulled himself back, becoming alert and remote once again.

Brought back to the moment, Jonathan released his hold and jerkily got to his feet to grab the med kit. Under the circumstances, he wasn't sure whether he was disappointed, or relieved.

With some difficulty, Jonathan managed to focus on what he was supposed to be doing. Kneeling awkwardly behind his slumped officer, he deftly guided Malcolm's head so that he could maximize the barely-adequate light. The hair at the base of Malcolm's skull was sticky and dark with matted blood, the visceral fluid making everything slippery. Jonathan clenched his jaw tightly, breathing through his nose while fighting down a wave of irritation for Malcolm's stubborn insistence that he was fine. He pushed the feeling away, firmly. Getting angry with Malcolm wouldn't solve anything right now, and would probably prove to be about as effective as trying to empty the ocean with a funnel. It was just the way Malcolm was.

He poured a small amount of their water into a cupped hand, and, trying to be as gentle as he possibly could, Jonathan began working the blood out of Malcolm's hair, hoping the wound underneath wasn't as bad as it looked from all the mess.

"If T'Pol follows her original plan, we can expect the Enterprise to re-enter the system to pick us up the day after tomorrow. We'll probably want more water — not to mention a bigger shelter before then, but all in all, we're not too badly off." Jon kept his tone light and conversational as he spoke, more to distract Malcolm as he worked, than out of any real desire to think about his lost ship.

Malcolm twisted his head around to ask, dryly, "Did you happen to bring a divining rod, then?" His eyes were a little wild-looking, their darkness standing out starkly against his pale face. Two bright spots of colour stood out on his cheeks, almost seeming to glow.

"Wha-?"

Malcolm cut him off before he could get his thoughts in order at this unexpected verbal onslaught. "A divining rod. This is a planet that is very surface-poor in water. The Kreetassan's ancestors had to dig forever to find underground waterways to build their aqueducts. Did your survival training include how to find underground rivers? Mine didn't."

"Lieutenant!" Jonathan had worked most of the blood out of the way, now. In the steady glow thrown by the super-heated rock fire, Jon examined the ugly-looking gash. Thankfully, it seemed to be clotted, and was only seeping sluggishly after the thorough washing. "We're going to be fine, Malcolm. I know you believe in realism, but sometimes you can defeat yourself before you even try." Dispite the informality of his name, the tone he used was the Captain's; closed and with all the authority of a command.

Reaching for the small med-kit, he was relieved to see some of the powerful pre-soaked antiseptic wipes he'd known Dr. Phlox to use in Decon the few times they'd had serious injuries on an away mission. They weren't as good as getting someone to sickbay, but they were much better then the water out of a canteen.

Jonathan could tell by the stiff set of his shoulders, and his ruthlessly ridged posture, that Malcolm was probably dismissing his words as 'dangerously optimistic', but didn't have the energy to try to argue with him.

He worked in silence, finishing up with the medicated cloth, and bandaging the wound as best he could. He also made Malcolm drink down a vial of red-ish fluid from their supplies. Pholx harvested it from his slugs, he really didn't want to know the details, but remembered his insisting that it be included in all their emergency kits as it was the best broad-spectrum antibiotic he knew. Well, here's hoping, Doc.

Waiting while Malcolm struggled out of the sleeves of his uniform, he wondered about the rest of his crew. Had they gotten away in time? Did the Romulan's detect them? Had Trip finished installing the injectors? That, at least, would mean that they had weapons back on line. T'Pol was a good first officer; he trusted her completely with his ship, but worry still gnawed at the back of his thoughts. He felt restless and impotent with his ship hiding out beyond his reach.

Well, at least Malcolm presented a problem he could do something about. He reached over to help peel off the jumpsuit as Malcolm finally got his arms free. A large, purple and blue bruise the size of a diagnostic pad was revealed. Running down the deltoid muscle and along his shoulder blade, Jon probed it gently, testing the damage as best he could. The skin, here too, was flushed under his hand, damp from the exhausting trek here. His fingers slide smoothly, testing carefully, watching as Malcolm grunted with pain, despite his care over a few especially tender spots. While the skin didn't appear to be broken, it was obviously tender. Well, beyond the analgesic he'd given him already, there wasn't much he else he could do. The ribs, on the other hand, he could tape - though not very thoroughly with what supplies he had here. When he finished, he and Malcolm attempted to get comfortable, leaning closely together against the rock wall of their cramped shelter. The makeshift 'fire' helped considerably, but the wind was whipping around their encampment now, and the wide opening did little to block it out. Looking over to Malcolm to make a comment, he stopped. The British man somehow gave the impression of being slumped over while still holding himself with his characteristically perfect posture. He was frowning slightly and his gaze was a million miles away as he brooded. Every now and then, Jonathan watched tremors run through his body, as he tried to suppress the shuddering paroxysms, brought on by fever.

"I think we should file a complaint with the management in the morning, Malcolm. These accommodations are hardly what I'd consider up to acceptable standards."

Malcolm smiled slightly. "I'm not sure what kind of apology you would consider acceptable from the Kreetassans, but I can certainly think of a few suggestions."

Jon grinned, boyishly. "Now that is an image I'd like to keep in my head for a long time. You, in that ridicules get up of theirs…"

"If it's all the same to you, Sir, I'd rather not," Malcolm said dryly.

Glad that he'd at least be able to distract Malcolm from his thoughts, Jonathan enjoyed the comfortable silence between them as he began to surrender to sleep.

He slept fitfully that night, worry for his friend and officer forcing him into wakefulness every time the other man stirred. When Jonathan did manage to sleep, his dreams were distorted and spasmodic.

He was back on the Enterprise and he was in his quarters, sprawled across his bunk, with the red sheets pulled up to his ears. It was so unbelievably comfortable; he didn't think he would ever move again. Trip would just have to tie-in bridge operations to his consol, and he would run the ship from in here. Suddenly he was cold. T'Pol was there, and she had taken his blankets and was shaking him, and she was telling him that he was the Captain, that he had to get up and meet with the Kreetassans to discuss Alvera trees, and that Porthos was already there, ready to pee on the First Minister if he didn't' get there on time to apologize and she was still shaking him —

Jonathan sat up with a start. Staring blankly at the dying rock-glow, it was a moment before he remembered where he was. Obviously, no more dried ration bars for me right before bed, he thought in disgust. There was moonlight now; the soft pinkish light that illuminated their cave, so different from the yellow-white light of his ship. Blinking a few times to focus in the unfamiliar light, he turned, wanting to check on Malcolm while he was awake.

Malcolm was huddled tightly against the rock beside him, shivering with hard jerks and spasms, head drawn down between his shoulders, arms wrapped around his chest in a tight embrace, trying to ward off the chill. His eyes were screwed shut, his mouth drawn into a thin line as he pressed his lips together tightly.

Shifting so that he was now pressed up against the other man, Jon gently eased Malcolm over to cradle him gently against his chest and side and wrapped him tightly in his arms, trying to share as much of his own heat as he could. Gradually, the deep shivering lessened, and Malcolm's rigid body began to relax in his semi-embrace. Jon looked down to find grey eyes looking back at him.

"Better?" he asked softly.

"Mmm-hmm." The response was languid, his gaze never leaving Jonathan's as he continued to study him with glassy eyes, still bright with fever. When he spoke it was very solemn, and with an air of discovery to his words. "You have really beautiful green eyes, Jonathan. Very, very green, like the frogs Maddie and I used to catch when we were children."

Jon closed his eyes in frustration. Oh, now he's interested! Without opening his eyes, Jonathan ran his hand soothingly along his back. "Go back to sleep, Malcolm. We'll talk about what you did with those frogs in the morning."

Malcolm actually giggled. "Oh, Maddie and I used to sneak them into Father's uniform locker right before he would leave on assignment."

Laughter rumbled deep in his chest at this glimpse of a much less disciplined Malcolm and his early rebellion.

-..-