There was no sign externally, at first.
They both knelt down beside the gym mat, watching its occupant. Malcolm was evidently in REM sleep; his eyelids fluttered. The index finger of his upflung hand twitched, so that Jon wondered who or what the target was, and whether they were still alive.
Perhaps half a minute later the gray eyes opened sharply. The lieutenant was facing the ceiling by this time, and a look of astonished alarm printed itself on his face as he found two people staring down at him.
For a splinter of time, Jon waited for it to become mindless fear or rage; waited for the body to respond to what could be nothing other than a threat.
Instead, it shifted instantaneously to the appalled expression of a reserved English officer who has woken up wearing nothing but a blanket in the presence of his captain and a senior female officer, and has no idea whatsoever how he's gotten into that situation.
In what seemed a purely reflex movement, Malcolm seized the blanket and pulled it up almost to his chin. The standard temperature of T'Pol's cabin being set rather higher than would be comfortable for the average Human, she'd only covered him to the waist. Evidently he didn't feel that this was nearly adequate for propriety when he was wearing Nothing Underneath It.
"S-Sir!" he stammered. "I– what–? I…"
"Easy, Malcolm." Jon laid a hand reassuringly on his shoulder, and tried to control the crazy grin of relief that wanted to break out on his own face. "Just rest. How are you feeling?"
The Brit wetted his lips while his eyes darted frantically around, plainly in the search for clues to where he was. "I'm fi–"
"I asked, how are you feeling," Jon interrupted, with a stern look.
Malcolm shot him a look of chastened gratitude. "I have a bit of a headache, sir," he admitted unwillingly.
The captain was by now reasonably fluent in Malcolmspeak. This statement translated as 'The two halves of my head feel like they're coming apart but I'm not going to admit it.'
"I have some tablets in my cabin," the lieutenant hurried on. "I'm sure if I can just take a couple I'll be absolutely fi–"
"Phlox will have the say on that," Jon told him unequivocally, ignoring the expression of crushed hope as yet another visit to Sickbay loomed.
"Subcommander, I – this is your cabin."
"I know." She gazed down at him calmly, her lips twitching ever so slightly.
Malcolm pressed a hand to his forehead, his expression bewildered; it seemed, however, that he was starting to remember what had happened to him. "I feel as if I've been asleep for hours. But I don't…. The – the mind-meld – I remember we started it – what happened?"
"You were right in that it proved traumatic, Lieutenant. The fact that you cannot remember it suggests that your brain deems it too dangerous for recollection, and that may be the safest path for all concerned."
Jon watched him absorb that information. Plainly it was unwelcome and troubling, as indeed it would be to him in the same situation, but sometimes Mother Nature really did know best. Nevertheless, it didn't escape him that the Brit was watching T'Pol with considerable unease, as though wondering exactly how much she'd discovered and what she thought about it. He himself was wondering much the same, and that would be the subject of the debriefing that would have to follow.
After a couple of moments Malcolm achieved a rather forced smile. "I take it my conduct wasn't 'in the best traditions of the Fleet', then. I only hope I didn't do anything particularly egregious." He touched the blanket. "Particularly in view of the fact that I somehow seem to have become singularly under-dressed for the occasion."
"You did nothing that was not entirely in keeping with the situation you found yourself in," T'Pol told him calmly. "As for your clothing – or lack of it – I had regard at all times to the dignity of a fellow-officer. There is no need for you to be concerned."
He nodded, accepting that readily and with obvious relief. It was another moment, however, before he was able to nerve himself to ask the question that clearly mattered most to him: "And … did it work?"
"In such a situation, Lieutenant, it is impossible to speak in absolutes. The captain and I were able to carry out a procedure which we hope and trust may have gone some way towards correcting your conditioning. Whether it will be completely successful, I cannot truthfully say, but on balance I would believe that you would represent a considerably less useful tool to your old handler in the future. As for whether that will be enough to allow you to remain on Enterprise, that will be the captain's decision and he will doubtless notify you of it in due course when we have discussed this fully and he has given the matter due consideration."
Jon nodded too. He was already fairly sure which way his decision would fall, but it was still a serious one and he preferred to talk things over in private with his XO before making it; she, after all, would have had a far more intimate insight into how Reed's mind had reacted and how it might have been affected by what had happened.
"This 'procedure'." Malcolm paused, plainly choosing his words very carefully, and not without a rather anxious glance at his CO. "Obviously, I don't remember anything. I'd … I'd appreciate a debriefing on it at some point."
"I would be more than willing to discuss it with you, but at a more suitable time and when we both feel you are fully recovered and able to deal with it properly. At this present moment you need to visit Sickbay so that Doctor Phlox can examine you, and I will need to accompany you there to explain the situation. Then, you need to rest for at least twenty-four hours."
"Rest, as in not find ways to sneak work into your quarters," the captain interrupted. "If you don't think you'll be able to sleep, ask Phlox to help you out. And that's an order."
He was momentarily startled to see an unmistakably mischievous glint appear in Malcolm's eyes. "Is this one of the orders I can feel free to ignore now, sir?"
Jon's first instinct was to reply 'Only if you want to see the inside of your own brig again', but he realized just in time that that was far too sensitive a subject for joking. He compromised with "Only if you want to be put on report," and had the satisfaction of seeing an answering shy grin spread across his tactical officer's face.
"In that case, sir, perhaps I'd better get dressed. It may not be the best idea for me to be seen coming out of here wearing nothing but a blanket."
"That, Lieutenant, is the opinion of both of us."
Especially if one guy in particular just happens to be roaming the corridors, thought Jon.
In the circumstances it would undoubtedly be best for both of them to leave the cabin at the same time; one would certainly cause comment if he were seen, but it was unlikely that the most scurrilous gossip-monger on the ship would add two and one together and make five. So he finished his by-now cold peppermint tea and tried not to smile at the contortions Malcolm achieved in his efforts to make himself respectable again without dropping the blanket.
"Well, one of us has to report for duty later on this morning, so I guess we'd better call it a night." The required degree of respectability being finally achieved, Jon set down his empty cup.
"Sir, I'm sure I'll be–"
"I said, one of us has to report for duty, Mister Reed."
"Sir." The Brit looked crushed again. Which was quite a feat, considering he already looked completely exhausted, as well he might.
"Come on, Malcolm. I'll see you and T'Pol as far as Sickbay and then I want you to rest. And stop worrying. It'll be okay."
The quick movement of the gray eyes in their bruised-looking hollows told him how desperately Malcolm wanted an answer to the most important question of all. But Jon wasn't quite ready for that yet. However his heart drove him, his head had to have the say in this one. In the last analysis, however much his tactical officer might have suffered, if he was still a risk to Enterprise then he still had to go.
Thankfully, the corridor outside was empty as the three of them exited. However respectable the two men might look, their presence in her cabin at this hour would certainly have provoked speculation if they'd been spotted. But it was well into the Gamma shift by now and the corridors were still dim, simulating night-time.
Nobody said anything as they walked to Sickbay. T'Pol appeared subdued – no doubt she was pretty damn tired too, and had a lot to think about. Malcolm hardly seemed able to set one foot in front of another, but was stumbling along half-blind with weariness; it was unlikely that Phlox would have to use too strong a sedative to get him back to sleep, if indeed any was required at all.
It wasn't too great a distance to Phlox's domain. Jon paused outside long enough to hear the doc's voice, and then turned and began almost shambling back to his own quarters. At one turning he hesitated. He didn't have his chronometer on but could guess that by now it was really hardly worth going to bed at all; maybe he might just detour to the Mess Hall and pick up a couple of cups of coffee. There had been times in the Expanse when he'd missed his night's sleep altogether, what with one thing or another, so he knew from bitter experience that it could be done. It wasn't an enjoyable experience, but yeah, it could be done. And there were still a few days before they'd reach Berengarius, so hopefully no crises would erupt in the meantime.
Well. Maybe even a couple of hours' sleep would be better than none at all. He shook his head, and resumed his original course.
He'd forgotten for a moment that Trip was sharing his quarters. It seemed that the engineer was exhausted too, because the light didn't even make him stir; he was lying belly-down, his face turned to one side and half-buried in the pillow. His left hand hung over the edge of the bed, motionless.
Patting Porthos in passing, Jon silently stripped back down to his sleeping shorts and got back into bed. Fortunately, Trip was a quiet sleeper – though right now it felt like a Fourth of July parade could have marched through the cabin and not had much hope of keeping its owner awake. Already Jon could feel the weight of oblivion bearing down on him.
"You owe me, buddy," he whispered as he put out the light. "And I hope you never get to find out how much you owe me."
A few thoughts oozed through his weary mind as sleep began rolling inexorably over it. Thoughts about T'Pol, and Erika. Either, neither; neither, either. Seemed like both of them already had their 'significant others'. Erika was still too much like he himself had been way back when; before he made the bitter discovery that for him, the heart of the dream was hollow. Maybe hers would not be. Maybe for her, beyond the next star….
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