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Trip watched as Malcolm stepped to the shower at the back of sickbay. With his back to his audience, he stripped off his filthy garments, leaving them in a puddle on the floor. He turned on the water and stepped underneath, lifting his face to the current as the stream made streaks through the grime on his skin and coursed down his back.
Trip ignored the conversation going on behind him, where Phlox and Jon were discussing their next steps. Nothing good was going to come from their debate, so he purposefully blocked out Phlox's strident tones and Jon's hissed responses.
Malcolm had turned partially toward them, and Trip could now see that his eyes were closed. He was standing there, letting the water hit his head and shoulders and flow down and away.
Trip was torn between horrified fascination - wanting to stare at Malcolm and catalogue all the changes - and wanting to give the man some privacy. In the end, he wrenched his eyes away. What he'd seen was enough.
He was suddenly glad he'd sent Hoshi back to the bridge. This was not the Malcolm he had known. The years Malcolm had been in that prison had obviously changed him, not just in terms of appearance, but... God, the look in his eyes from earlier, and now, with his not caring... Trip realised that he could very well be standing there, staring at Malcolm as he showered, and he doubted that Malcolm would even notice. Or if he did notice, that he'd give two shits.
The change probably had a lot to do with the scars Trip had seen on Malcolm's back and shoulders. He looked at Malcolm again, watching as he, with eyes still shut, reached out for the shampoo on the wall. Some of the scars appeared to be older, less raised and somewhat faded. Others were obviously newer, raised red ridges where he'd been whipped or cut. And then there were the scars at his temples.
Two years, Malcolm had been locked in that prison. Two damn years! Shaking his head slightly, Trip looked away. He pulled over a nearby chair and, turning it around, straddled it. Crossing his arms over its back, he leaned his chin on his hands. They'd been visiting a planet called Crath, and everything had actually been going very well for once. Until Malcolm, escorting Jon to a state dinner, had been captured by some... well, he supposed they were bounty hunters, of a sort. Hired security who'd been paid by the Illyrians to find Jon or, short of that, anyone from Enterprise. Malcolm had made sure that Jon had escaped, but he himself hadn't been as lucky.
So Malcolm had been the one put on trial for what the Illyrians felt were Enterprise's sins. And they certainly had sinned. They'd stolen the Illyrian's warp core in their own desperate search for the Xindi. They'd taken that warp core and left the Illyrians there to make their slow way home. The fact that Jon had been the one who'd wanted to raid the ship, and that Malcolm was actually one of the few who'd spoken up and questioned him... Trip shook his head. Even when Jon had showed up in person, the Illyrians hadn't cared. They had their man.
Malcolm had paid the price for all of them.
Trip clenched his fingers on the top edge of the chair, the metal surface digging into his skin. He could still remember the last time he'd seen Malcolm. Malcolm had just been convicted by the aliens for theft and depraved indifference - despite their argument that he'd been acting under orders from Jon, actions that were done as part of his job and in search of the Xindi, damn it, but no one would listen. They hadn't cared that he'd never boarded their ship. They hadn't cared that Trip himself had taken the core, or that Jon had lead the boarding party. Not even Jon showing up for the trial had dissuaded them. Trip doubted they'd cared if Malcolm was the Armoury Officer or the damn cook. They saw him as a representative of Starfleet and of Enterprise, and he was tried and convicted on that basis.
His eyes were drawn back to Malcolm, and he watched the water wash away the worst of the filth, only serving to highlight how thin he'd gotten. He had no idea what Malcolm had gone through in that place, but it had changed him. And God, it could have been worse. He'd originally been up for attempted murder, which would have meant a death sentence. At least he was alive. Trip had taken some heart from that, two years ago. As long as Malcolm was alive, there was still a chance for them to get him out. That it had taken them this long was shameful. Shame added upon shame. He wondered how Jon could even look at himself in the mirror. He knew he couldn't.
With a start, Trip realised that Malcolm had stopped washing and was staring at him, eyes wary. Trip couldn't keep himself from looking away.
They'd abandoned him. He'd been their sacrifice. And sure, he'd been a supposedly willing participant, but what choice had he actually had?
He'd sacrificed himself, to allow them to go on. To prevent what would likely become a severe diplomatic incident, one that would have prevented them from continuing their mission, and could even have caused a war between the Illyrians and Earth; an Earth that, just after the Xindi attacks, stood in no shape to defend itself against another powerful enemy.
Trip understood. He understood why Jon had decided to let Malcolm face trial, and why Starfleet had backed him up. He understood, but he almost wished he didn't. He'd rather be filled with hate and anger than this, this nothingness that had replaced it. He seemed to have left his anger about this back with Malcolm on that planet.
The last time he'd seen Malcolm had been in the court's temporary cell, just after he'd been convicted. They'd been about to move him to the prison facility, and Trip knew that he didn't have much time. He'd stood just outside the transparent barrier that trapped his friend, the buzz of the courtroom behind him, and all he remembered from those moments was his own fear, and the soft prayer for protection he'd muttered.
No, that wasn't quite true. That's all he was letting himself remember. He remembered what Malcolm had said.
"If I have to give up my own life, at least it's for something important." Malcolm looked about as scared as Trip had ever seen him, but he also looked sure of himself.
Jon had stepped up beside Trip. "Thank you," was all the captain said, his face solemn. He turned and walked away without looking back. Trip realised that this may have seemed cold to someone who didn't know him, but Trip knew that Jon simply could not turn around and see Malcolm, and still do this. But Trip himself - he'd had to.
He'd placed a hand flat against the transparent surface, and Malcolm had raised his own palm to meet his. "I'm sorry," Trip had said before his voice cracked with the strength of his emotion. Curling his fingers into his palm, he'd pounded the barrier softly. Eyes burning, he turned and walked away.
Almost at the door, he had looked back. Malcolm was staring after him, standing at attention but looking lost. When he caught Trip's eye, he gave a tiny, wan smile.
And Trip had turned away. Turned away and left him there, to face justice for a crime that he hadn't committed, but of which they were all guilty. Trip hadn't wanted to think too hard on what his friend may have experienced these past two years.
The water shut off, and Trip looked up to see Malcolm grab a towel from the stand next to the shower. He dried himself hastily and wrapped the towel around his waist, all the while ignoring his audience. He stepped to the nearby sink, where one of Phlox's medics had laid out a razor and some scissors. There was a mirror above the sink. He looked up into it and froze. Trip thought he saw a brief spark of shock reflected in his eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it had come.
Malcolm lifted the scissors and stared down at them, and for the briefest of seconds, Trip felt uncertain about what this man, who once he'd known so well, might do. He thought Malcolm might be wondering same thing, because he hesitated there, caught in the moment. Then Malcolm looked up to the mirror and began tugging at his beard, cutting it short to prepare for shaving.
Jon's voice cut through Trip's thoughts. "...to speak with him as soon as he's cleaned up," the captain said, his voice pitched low enough not to travel to Malcolm. Trip didn't bother turning around.
"I haven't had a chance to evaluate him," Phlox argued.
"There's no time for that," Jon said sharply. He winced, and took it down a notch. "Sorry, doctor. We need him."
And they did.
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