A/N: Chapter 13, and we've now come to the end of the chapters I had written in advance... looks like I'd better get typing!
Verity Kindle: Lol, sorry to have put you into such a state of distraction! Hope you enjoy the next chapter...
height-boffin: Good point, I have under-estimated the average male height, I blame my short male friends telling me 5 foot 7 was average!! However I've always imagined Malcolm as fairly little (he seems shorter than Trip on-screen anyway) although I've given an extra inch in my edit of chapter 12!
Alelou: A bit of fantasy is good for the soul methinks... :)
grumpyelaine: I'm glad to hear it! I hope you enjoy this chapter, thanks for reviewing!
Disclaimer: I don't own Enterprise. I do own the Quartermaster's Crew but they are anyone's for the borrowing!
Chapter Thirteen
Freudian Slip
When Malcolm awoke to find a pretty young woman sleeping peacefully in his arms, he was momentarily transported back to another time in his life, and he was on the verge of leaning across to kiss her awake before he remembered precisely where he was, who he was holding, and why. He abruptly rolled on his side, away from the warm body beside him.
"Oh, God."
"I don't think He can hear you from down here." A surprisingly clear voice responded to his declamation, and he rolled back over to see Henny looking at him with eyes containing not a hint of sleep.
"You were awake?"
"Yes. Wishing I wasn't."
Malcolm snorted, feeling at the same time a slight flush running along his neck. He hoped she hadn't noticed his slip, and resolved to think of her, if not as an inferior crewman, then at least as a sister.
"At least it's warmer now." He commented, feeling rather like a tourist trying to make inane conversation.
"No more heat-sharing survival tactics required, then."
Malcolm felt himself flush once more at even her half-joking tone (why the bloody hell was his body acting like that of a schoolboy's in such a dangerous situation?), but they were saved the embarrassment of any further pillow-less talk by the clang of the doors. Malcolm clambered to his feet, wishing his tongue didn't taste like so much sandpaper and that his head would stop spinning. He felt achy and winced at the light; probably an infection, on top of everything else. Beside him, Henny's movements were even more uncertain, and he scarcely had time to take in her by-now-soiled bandages and the seepage of blood on the one wrapped around her head before the burly guard who had entered backhanded him across the face before grabbing his hands and cuffing him. Malcolm barely heard Henny's shrieks of protest.
"Guess that saves me the effort of being voluntarily chivalrous, eh?" He muttered, before the guard cuffed him once more. He wisely decided that silence would probably be the best policy.
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The atmosphere on the bridge was tense, and Archer suspected that another dose of shore leave would be required once Lieutenant Reed and Crewman Mackie were recovered. Once. He couldn't deal in ifs. They had lost too many people in the Expanse to declare another two dead here, on their first supposedly peaceful mission for two years.
Hoshi was listening into the airwaves of the planet Dndir, though their attempts to pick up anything about the two hostages were currently being foiled by the fact that Dndir was a popular tourist destination and the majority of communications featured excited holidaymakers relaying news of their exploits. T'Pol was scanning the area in which the Enterprise crewmembers had been staying for human biosigns, but once again this was a lengthy process with no guarantee of success; whoever had kidnapped the pair could already be off the planet. And Trip was pacing, his hand tapping against his leg, whilst Malcolm's SIC sat nervously at the tactical console, looking virtually green at the prospect of taking his commanding officer's role over for good. Archer certainly couldn't blame him.
The Captain was about to open his mouth to ask for a status update from his officers when the strained silence on the bridge was broken by the sound of the turbolift doors opening and a most definitely unauthorised crewman stomping in. Archer frowned, rising from his seat.
"Crewman -?"
"Tiller, sir." The gruff, middle-aged man replied, and Jonathon recalled that he had been a member of the away team down to Clendavia. He was one of the members of the Quartermaster's Store. However, before he could reprimand the crewman for interrupting the bridge crew in their work, Tiller let out a reprimand of his own. "I would like to say, respectfully, sir, that I am a little concerned at the lack of news we in the Store have been given regarding Henny – Crewman Mackie. Have you found them yet?"
"No," Archer said, and he could tell by T'Pol's glance and raised eyebrows that he was allowing his irritation to show, "we are doing everything we can to retrieve Lieutenant Reed and his companion, but you must understand that our priority is finding them, not informing the rest of the crew of our status. Do I make myself clear, Crewman?"
It seemed that the rough fellow was unaffected by the edge of steel in his captain's voice, for he did not budge from his spot. In fact, he took up what looked worryingly like a semi-permanent position leaning against a safety barrier.
"Indeed, Captain. But at the risk of demotion I shall make myself clear: that "companion" has a name, and I have known her for five years, and she is as dear to me as your Lieutenant Reed is to you. So, if you don't mind, I'm staying right here until there's some news."
Archer was torn between the grudging truth that Tiller's point was an entirely fair one, and the insubordination with which he was faced. But then again, he had never been one to play by the rule book, at least not before the Expanse – Malcolm knew that.
"Sir," Hoshi interrupted his uncomfortable train of thought, "we're getting a call from the surface. Whoever it is say they have... some items we might be interested in."
Archer immediately pushed any unnecessary thoughts to the back of his mind and returned to the centre of the bridge, but did not sit down.
"Put them on," he commanded.
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Malcolm found himself thrown back into the cell an hour or so later with just as little ceremony as he had been dragged from it. Henny was seated in the middle of the cell, her face even paler than usual, but before he could ask what was wrong she had glanced up, taken in his undoubtedly attractive profile of cuts and bruises, and was by his side in an instant.
"Sir – Malcolm – what did they...?" She shook her head and Malcolm could not contain a snort at the fact that whilst she had quite calmly and patiently borne whatever injuries they had done her the day before, at the sight of his blood she looked shocked and even angry.
"Nothing I can't handle." He managed to mutter, before hastily sitting down. What had the Clendavin officer said to him, moments before he put the large, heavy object he had been holding into hasty contact with his skull? I want you to feel, human, exactly as our soldiers felt after you brought that cave roof down on them. The Clendavins were certainly a species that took revenge quite seriously.
He felt a pair of hands play through his hair; Henny was identifying the most urgent injuries.
"It's ok," she murmured, though Malcolm suspected from her somewhat panicked tone that anything was far from 'ok', "they put another medical kit through the slot before they threw you in, I was just preparing..." He felt the hands above his scalp begin to shake and realised that, whilst he was trained for dealing with lots of blood, Henny Mackie most certainly wasn't.
"Henrietta," he said softly, and he felt the hands still, as he had been sure they would. He felt her blow a breath out.
"You know, I hate it when people call me that."
"I know."
There was a long pause and though Henny's breathing was now steady, he got the worrying feeling that she was preparing herself to tell him something. Sure enough;
"Uh... I'm going to have to... stitch you up."
He flinched, and hastily turned around to face her, before feeling a rush of wooziness and wishing he hadn't. Her brown eyes were serious but determined. And she was holding a needle and thread in her right hand.
"Oh, God. Where the bloody hell did that little lot come from?"
Henny held up the needle. It was one inch long and sharp.
"The little package they sent us. It's not large enough to do anyone of them any damage should we use it as a weapon, but more than sufficient to... to..."
Malcolm was somewhat grateful that she decided not to finish that sentence. Nevertheless, she was still holding the needle, and he was fairly sure that suturing human skin had never featured in any of her emergency training.
"It's alright," she said, as though hearing his thoughts, "my straight stitching is pretty good."
Malcolm didn't quite trust himself to speak, so he simply nodded and turned back around, allowing her to push his head slightly forward to give her access to the wound. He even found himself thinking wistfully of Phlox's slugs.
He felt a faint pressure on his skull as Henny pulled the two sections of skin together (two sections which had violently parted company, he recalled dimly, through the use of a particularly brutal-looking instrument in the hands of his second or third interrogator), and a stinging as he swabbed the area with disinfectant. And then, the part that he had truly been dreading, the sharp pluck of the needle into his skin. Distraction, that was the key. His eyes frantically raked the nondescript grey walls of the cell; nothing. A small part of his mind murmured that it would have been far more pleasant had Henny been standing in front rather than behind him, but these thoughts were not worth the admittedly pleasant distraction they brought, and so he banished them. It was Henny who, as always, came to his rescue; she started to hum, probably to calm her own nerves, but the slightly off-key rendition of an old, half-forgotten lullaby gave him the focus he needed to help ignore the pain. Five minutes later, he felt the final tug of her closing knot and the humming faded away, to be replaced by a long, shaky breath out.
"Good work, Henny." He said, and she laughed.
"I just pretended I was fixing one of your uniforms."
He felt another soft pressure, but no pain this time, as she began to bandage the wound. Then, as she finished wrapping, he felt her lean over him, and kiss the spot where the cut had been. He flinched, and at once felt her pull away.
"Henny -" He started, turning to face her but then stopped, horrified to see what he had not noticed when he first stumbled into the cell; that a fresh bruise was welling up above her right eye and, most brutal of all, a deliberately straight gash had been cut diagonally across her left cheek. It was not bleeding, but encrusted with dried blood, and though he had seen much of that substance throughout his life Malcolm felt a sudden revulsion at the sight of it there, on the face of a girl who had done nothing to deserve it but save his life. And worse were the eyes, which were slowly filling with tears. Which salty substance appalled him the most?
"I -" She started, then stopped, and shook her head. One hand fluttered helplessly, needle and thread still between forefinger and thumb, and with both of his hands Malcolm gently stilled hers, laying the needle to one side and rubbing her hand for warmth.
"What happened, Henny?" He asked, after a time. Her eyes met his for the briefest moment and then darted away. She took a deep breath and he tightened his grip on her hand.
And then she told him – how one of the Clendavins, one of those whom she thought she had killed in causing the rock-fall, had come into the cell an hour after he had been dragged out of it, and then for a long time had simply stared at her. Once again (as he himself had experienced that very day) the manner with which her injuries had been inflicted had been purely surgical, and the man had no anger in his eyes as he cut her cheek, merely coldness. She told him how the Clendavin had taken the ring from her left hand, and then explained, with far more pain in her voice than had been when she explained her injuries, the story behind the ring and why Crewman Manning had reacted so violently to finding it in his quarters. And how the man had struck her, knocking her out, and when she awoke he was gone.
They sat in silence for a long moment, Henny avoiding his gaze.
"There's something more, isn't there?" He asked softly, on impulse, and realising its truth as her face paled. He swallowed, trying not to think of what cruelties might be inflicted on a young woman about which she would be reluctant to speak. After a brief pause, in which he went through every permutation of self-blame, she shakily cleared her throat. When she spoke it was with surprising strength.
"He said – before he left, he said... that he and his people had now inflicted on us the injuries I did to him and the first of his comrades. There was just one more injury left."
Malcolm almost let out a sigh of relief that it was not something worse, but something in her tone stopped him. He looked at her.
"Malcolm," she said, "the third man died."
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A/N: Uhoh, a cliffie!!!