§ 10 §

"Phlox says you passed all your tests with flying colours," Archer said. He turned the chair near Trip's biobed the other way round and sat down, leaning his arms on the back of it.

"Yeah…"

"That's great, Trip."

Archer grimaced: there was a clear discrepancy between the meaning of his words and the tone of his voice, but he just couldn't bring himself to sound relieved, let alone happy, when one of his officers was still in limbo. He knew, though, that he needn't apologise about his mood. There was no doubt that Trip was feeling much the same.

"Malcolm is as stubborn as you are," he added hoarsely, his heart clenching as he raised his eyes to the next biobed and the still form on it. "He might still come through." He had wanted to say 'I'm sure that he will make it', but in the end the words had stuck in his throat.

Trip glanced at the unconscious Lieutenant, before returning his gaze to his hands. "He spent too much time outside, on that damned planet," he murmured, as if needing to explain why, after Phlox had weaned them both from the sedative, he had responded as expected whereas Malcolm had slipped into a coma.

"Yes, Phlox thinks he was exposed to that energy more than you were," Archer confirmed, forcing the words out. He had to speak the truth; it broke his heart, but it wouldn't be good or serve any purpose to lie, or pretend everything would just turn out fine where there was more than a chance that it wouldn't. "Unfortunately he cannot predict whether Malcolm will be ok."

"I just hope that he will be, if he ever wakes up, Capt'n," Trip said tautly. "When we figured out what those bursts could do to us, he told me he'd rather die than suffer brain damage."

Archer's face scrunched up in a soulful smirk. Who wouldn't, he thought grimly. But especially someone like Malcolm: he was too proud a spirit to stand the idea of having to rely on the help of people for the rest of his life.

Trip turned to him, looking like a man whose burden is too heavy and needs someone to take it off his shoulders. "I was the ranking officer on that mission," he said in a voice altered by self-directed anger. "I should have realised that it was dangerous to stay out in the open. He'd be fine now if I had been a commanding officer worthy of that name."

"Don't say that, Trip: your reasoning was affected," Archer said firmly. "You weren't thinking straight. And neither was Malcolm. You said it yourself that both of you had difficulty concentrating. And even if your thinking hadn't been impaired, how were you supposed to know just how dangerous that energy was? Your instruments weren't working properly. It's irrational to feel guilty over what's happened."

In the middle of his lecture, a little voice in his mind began to whisper, 'Look who's speaking'. Not so long ago T'Pol had told him as much, albeit in her terser, Vulcan way, trying to soothe his own unreasonable pangs of conscience. He really couldn't blame Trip, now, could he? He knew what he was going through.

"That's the thing with being in command, though," Archer said painfully, his heart reaching out to his friend. "You feel responsible for the people you're in charge of. No matter what." He raised his eyebrows in a resigned expression. "It happens to me all the time. And this time was no exception," he admitted.

"Ah, Capt'n, how could you have foreseen…"

Trip didn't finish, lowering his head and passing a hand over his eyes. He heaved a deep breath. "You know, I don't envy you," he murmured after a moment, "It must be a heck of a stressin' job to be Captain of a ship."

"It is," Archer said with a smile that he knew would not reach his eyes. "There are moments when I feel the pressure crush me; but I wouldn't change it for anything in the world. This crew makes me very proud to be their Commanding Officer."

Someone cleared his throat, and both Trip and Archer turned to see Phlox standing a couple of metres away.

"Doctor," Archer said, standing up in a silent invitation to join them.

Phlox came up to them with a nod of greeting. "I'll keep the Commander one more night, Captain, and if nothing strange arises, tomorrow he can be released from sickbay."

"What about returning to duty?" Trip asked.

Archer was struck by how flat his voice sounded. Generally Trip would have been chomping at the bit to get back into Engineering.

Phlox tilted his head, studying his patient. "There is no physical reason for you not to return to duty, Commander. I am slightly concerned, however, about your emotional state." He looked Trip straight in the eye. "I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself because your mind is somewhere else."

Trip held the Denobulan's searching gaze. "Doing some work will actually help me take my mind off other things, Doc," he said quietly.

Phlox glanced briefly at his other patient. "Very well," he relented. "Only light duties, though."

"Thanks, Doc."

It was a strange sensation, a bit like experiencing your weight again after being in zero G. Malcolm couldn't quite tell where or what and didn't have the energy to open his eyes, so he lay very still as he fought to emerge from a haziness that made him uneasy.

All he was aware of through his senses was his breathing, and he focused on it, feeling his chest expand and contract: it did so rhythmically, easily. He took a deeper breath and his mind cleared fractionally. Nothing seemed to hurt.

After a moment he was lucid enough to turn his attention from inward to outward. He could hear some soft beeps, and they sounded familiar, which made him feel a bit more reassured.

He listened to them while images flashed unbidden through his mind: a camp fire; dark shadows; a bright full moon; Trip on a shuttlepod bench, with his eyes closed… He knew these things should mean something to him, but they just didn't at the moment, and he was too exhausted to search his memory for answers.

With an effort, he cracked his eyes open. His vision was blurred so he blinked a few times, but it did nothing to clear it. What helped was when he turned his head, and his eyes shifted from a white, nondescript ceiling to a shape near his bed. Trip, working on a padd, slowly came into focus.

Malcolm silently looked at him, feeling, for some strange reason that he couldn't understand, relieved to see his friend. He wanted to speak, but he felt so overwhelmed by a number of sensations – weariness being conspicuously among them – that he couldn't bring himself to utter a single sound. He just lay there, happy for the moment, to watch his friend work away.

It was while he was in this state of blissful exhaustion that Trip actually lifted his gaze and looked at him: their eyes met and Trip's went wide.

"Malcolm?"

Malcolm stared back at him, shocked by how drawn Trip's face was. He opened his mouth to speak but once again just couldn't summon the energy. He wondered if he himself looked half as bad as Trip did, then decided he must, judging by the worry that was definitely turning his friend's normally warm and cheerful eyes into bottomless depths one could fall into. Concern began to sneak through him as well.

"Malcolm…" Trip choked out, distress clear in his voice.

Malcolm's mouth was already rather dry, but went even drier. Why did Trip sound so panicked? He felt his heartbeat pick up speed. Perhaps there was something very wrong with him: he was in sickbay, after all. He might not be experiencing pain but Phlox had some pretty potent meds for taking care of that. Trip wasn't very good at hiding his feelings, everybody knew that. So this must be it: he must be badly injured.

Trip swallowed hard. "Oh, my God…" he whispered. Raising a hand, he put it hesitantly on his arm, and through it Malcolm could feel the tension of his friend's body being conveyed to him. Damn, this could be even worse than he had thought.

Well, he wasn't going to be prey to doubt and fear. Digging deep within himself, Malcolm found the energy to croak out, "Am I going to die?" The words had come out as a barely understandable, hoarse whisper.

"What?" Trip breathed out, his brow creasing slightly.

Malcolm coughed to try and clear his voice. "Bloody hell, the truth," he demanded as firmly as his state allowed him, "Am I about to die?" He sank back into the mattress, drained, his eyes beginning to droop closed. As an immediate reaction Trip strengthened the grip on his arm.

"Stay with me, Malcolm," he virtually ordered.

Malcolm felt himself slipping away, but there was such urgency in Trip's voice that he managed to crack his eyes open again.

Trip had stood up and was staring at him. "You're not dyin'," he said emotionally. "Damn, I was so scared that those bursts might have…" He cut himself off and swallowed. A moment later a grin brought a ray of sunlight over his face. "But you made it. We both made it."

Bursts…

All of a sudden things came rushing back and Malcolm knew what the images that had flashed through his mind before were all about. With the memory came despair so real that he scrunched his eyes shut against it. Trip's grip tightened again.

"Phlox!" Trip called; then pressingly, "Malcolm, are you ok?"

With a huge effort Malcolm managed once again to look at him. "The Captain came in time," he mumbled.

"Yeah, well, it's a long story," Trip replied, his grin coming back. "I'll tell you all about it when you're a bit more with it."

Malcolm managed a small smile himself. As his eyes closed for good he heard the familiar voice of Doctor Phlox, but by then unconsciousness had virtually reclaimed him, its grip more powerful than the one Trip still had on his arm.

TBC