This is a long one!

I remind you this is set around Season One (in case you find some of Trip's rumblings odd, :-) )

§ 7 §

As the lift doors closed behind Malcolm, Trip promised himself once again to check on him soon; the man had looked haunted.

"What the hell went on?" he demanded, returning to his conversation with T'Pol. They were behind the Captain's chair and he had kept his voice very low, relying on the Vulcan's strong hearing, but he noticed Travis's shoulders tense.

"It is quite obvious the Admiral has no experience commanding a ship."

T'Pol's serene reply contrasted almost cruelly with Trip's irritation. With her blasted impassivity she often did manage to make them all appear like neurotic brutes. Right now, though, Trip couldn't give a damn how he appeared.

He narrowed his eyes. "Then we cannot let him sit in that chair," he growled, pointing to the forlorn seat.

"We have already discussed the issue," the Vulcan countered. She latched her hands behind her back. "All we can do is to help the Ambassador make the right decisions."

"He just placed Enterprise at risk," Trip bit back. "What are you gonna do the next time, if he refuses to listen? If we run into…" – he waved a hand, looking for the worst scenario – "…a Klingon Bird-of-prey?"

"The Admiral is not a foolish person, Commander. I believe he can be made to see reason."

Throwing his head back, Trip passed a hand through his hair. There was no peaceful way out of this. So he might as well leave it at that.

"I'll be in Engineering," he said flatly, looking down at her. "And, for heaven's sake, don't let him go to Warp five," he added before leaving. "Or at least help him understand that he needs to tell us down there first."

As Trip leaned with one shoulder against the wall of the turbo-lift, emotions inside his chest churned like stormy waters. The pain of having lost a close friend was undoubtedly amplifying the hostility he felt towards Blake and, in a way, also towards T'Pol. He had always distrusted her unemotional front; it was something that put him ill at ease. He was a warm person, someone who wore his heart on his sleeve: T'Pol was… she wasn't only reserved, like Malcolm; Trip felt he always could tell what was going on inside the Lieutenant. T'Pol instead… she was like a cat, you never really knew if the hand you reached out to her wouldn't come away scathed. Like a cat, she might just as easily surprise you, showing friendliness when you least expected it. It was destabilising. To bear with the feline metaphor, you had to know them well before hoping to begin understanding them. Not for the first time, Trip wondered how well he knew T'Pol.

His thoughts going back to Malcolm, Trip heaved a concerned sigh. The man was not himself. And in their present situation he needed to be able to rely on him. He had to understand how far Reed could be pushed if bad came to worse. Maybe it wasn't such an idle consideration to wonder, in case of a debatable order from Blake, whether Malcolm would stand by him or stick to Starfleet regulations.

The lift stopped on E deck and Trip went out. He started down the hall towards Engineering; then, with a determined frown, turned around and went in the other direction. He'd go find Malcolm in sickbay; and while he was there, he would ask Phlox about the Lieutenant's health.

"Lieutenant Reed?"

Phlox's expression clearly conveyed the idea that he would never expect that particular officer to show up in sickbay of his own free will.

"He said he was comin' by for treatment," Trip said, wary of uncovering a white lie yet wanting to know how things stood.

Phlox's chin jerked down and back. "All I'm giving him at the moment is some painkiller for his bruises: he's still rather banged up." With a shrug, he added, "He's probably in the Armoury. He must have thought of something that was more important for him to do than look after his aches and pains."

"Yeah," Trip breathed out. "How is he – you know – otherwise?"

"He's out of danger. The first hours after a concussion are the most critical ones, as you know." Phlox studied Trip. "But somehow I don't think you are only enquiring after his physical health." He sighed. "Knowing Mister Reed, I'm sure that not all is perfectly well with him, psychologically, but he won't talk about it. I'm equally sure that he'll come out of it, in the long run, and that he is quite able to put his problems on hold and be professionally there for the ship, if needs be."

"Thanks, Doc," Trip said with a pale smile. "That's what I wanted to hear." He turned to go.

"Commander," Phlox stopped him. He took a step closer. "Losing the Captain was a hard blow for everyone on board, not only for the Lieutenant," he said in his paternal tone. "How are you holding up?"

Trip bit his lip, swallowing against the knot that was a bit too quick to form in his throat these days. "Same as Malcolm, I suppose. I'll come out of it, in the long run," he croaked out.

"You are not Lieutenant Reed," Phlox commented, blue eyes assessing. "He prefers to deal with things on his own, without sharing his troubles. I daresay he seems to like to suffer alone. But you are not that kind of person. If you ever wish to put my degree in psychology to the test, so to speak, I'll gladly put my knowledge at your disposal."

"I might take you up on that offer, one of these days, Doc. After we drop off the Admiral and Ambassador." Trip smirked. "Right now I have too many other things on my mind."

"Very well," Phlox said with a mirthless smile. "Any time you're ready, you'll know where to find me."

T'Pol stopped in front of their guest's quarters on C deck. She looked up and down the corridor, hand hovering in front of the bell; then turned to the door and pressed. Almost a minute passed before the door swished open.

"Am I disturbing you?" she asked the person who appeared on the other side.

Whatever Ambassador V'Sir felt, he did not show it. Not surprisingly. Right now his emotions must be well under control: although T'Pol had not let her eyes stray from the angular face, with her peripheral vision she had caught a glimpse of lit candles.

"I was meditating," the Ambassador replied, without giving away the slightest irritation. The silence that followed those words, though, was quite eloquent.

"I apologise. I will come back another time," T'Pol said. She ought to have anticipated that at this time V'Sir might be carrying out that Vulcan practice.

"No." V'Sir stood aside. "I was nearly finished."

T'Pol looked at him for a moment, to be sure that she was welcome. Then nodded and went in.

"You have lived with Humans for too long," the thin Vulcan commented, as he followed her inside. "You have forgotten the Vulcan ways."

T'Pol wondered briefly if there was any truth in the man's words. She still felt profoundly Vulcan, but had to admit that some of the customs and peculiarities of her Human crewmates had become slightly less annoying with time.

"I merely meditate later in the evening, before I go to sleep, when I am certain I will not be…" She caught herself; then turned and finished, "Interrupted."

Raising a silent brow, V'Sir waited for her to go on.

"I believe you know why I am here," T'Pol stated.

"The Vulcan High Command expects you to assist us in every way possible," V'Sir replied, cutting right to the core.

T'Pol heaved a deep – if silent – sigh. She crossed her arms loosely over her chest, and waited for him to go on.

Malcolm was indeed in the Armoury. Trip stepped inside and hesitated for a moment, taking in the quiet and spotless domain of Lieutenant Reed. The man himself was with Ensign Bernhard Müller on the elevated platform, at the main console. Reed had his back to the door, but from the crooked way he leaned on the console, favouring his left side, Trip could tell the stubborn man should indeed have taken a detour to sickbay before burying himself in here.

As soon as Trip moved forward, Müller spotted him. "Commander," he greeted, with a nod.

Malcolm turned, one hand darting briefly to his lower back. "Sir," he echoed, ever proper before the rest of the crew.

"May I have a word with you?" Trip asked. Before the man could send his Second away, he added, "Maybe we can grab a cup of somethin', or a bite to eat."

Malcolm nodded. "Carry on, Ensign," he told Bernhard. Then he climbed down the few steps to the main floor. He pretended to manage them without a flinch, but Trip didn't fail to notice that his movements were a lot less fluid than usual.

They walked side by side along the corridor in silence for a long moment.

"I though you were gonna go to sickbay," Trip finally dared.

"I was, but got diverted." A cutting side glance darted Trip's way. "Trip, if you've come to bother me about my well-known aversion to sickbay, or – worse – to tell me how to take care of myself, I---"

"Hey," Trip cut the tirade off, taking the Lieutenant by one arm and stopping them. "I'm only worried about you," he said, boring into the tired grey eyes. He cast a glance to the bottom of the corridor, where one of his own staff had appeared, and let go of the arm. They resumed walking. "Don't think it isn't obvious that you can hardly stand straight," he added quietly.

"It's only a bloody bruise or two," Malcolm bit back through gritted teeth.

They fell silent for another moment, till the young engineer had passed by.

"All right." Malcolm continued sarcastically. "I groan when I sit down, and then when I get back up; indeed my bones ache when I stand and even when I lie down, but aren't I lucky? I ought to be thanking heaven that I'm in pain, it's still better than feeling nothing, ever again."

Trip couldn't believe his ears.

"Are you tryin' to punish yourself? You don't have to feel pain. There are things called painkillers."

By now they had come to the mess hall doors, and it was Malcolm who stopped and turned to him.

"Trip, can we please talk of more important things than my bruises?"

He didn't sound angry any more, just plain exhausted, and troubled.

"That is assuming you wanted to talk to me about what happened on the Bridge," he went on. "If not, I'd really rather go back to the Armoury. I'm not hungry, anyway."

Trip let his jaw jut out in a determined expression. "Come on," he muttered, leading the way into the mess.

A few minutes later they were sitting at a far table, a pasta dish in front of each. Sometimes Trip felt like a damn bastard, pulling rank on Malcolm for things like these; but it was for the man's own good. Besides, he wasn't hungry himself, but they both had a duty to keep their strength up.

"What do you think of Blake?" Trip enquired, forcing himself to give the good example, and shoving the first morsel into his mouth.

Malcolm fiddled with his fork. "He's the typical example of a big shot whose general idea of work is to sit behind a desk and give orders," he said with a sarcastic huff. "I don't like him. And his dislike of me isn't influencing my judgement – not by much at any rate."

Trip studied his friend. His face had darkened, like his tone. "His dislike of you?" he repeated. "Have I missed somethin'?"

Malcolm smirked. "Right. You weren't there when he said he hoped I was more competent as an Armoury than a Security Officer."

Trip's face tightened in outrage. "Don't listen to him, Malcolm."

"Easier said than done," Malcolm muttered, finally taking his first, reluctant bite.

It was lunch time, and the Mess hall was slowly filling up. Trip watched the people in line at the serving cabinets; then let his eyes travel around to the tables: there weren't many smiling faces around. Not one, actually.

"I'd really like to know what this mission is all about," Malcolm added gloomily. "You'd think we'd have a right to know."

"The Capt'n probably knew," Trip breathed out. "What I would like to know, is how T'Pol fits into the picture. Whether I can trust her or not."

Malcolm lowered his fork. "T'Pol? Why should you not trust her?"

"Well, she didn't put up much of a fight when Blake wanted command of the ship," Trip spat out. "She let him take her out of orbit the moment the twenty-four hours were up. Sometimes I feel she knows more than she lets on. She's Vulcan, after all, and we're carrying a Vulcan Ambassador."

Eyes on a nondescript spot on the table, Malcolm considered the words. "On the Bridge, before, she talked as if she felt more part of Starfleet than of the High Command," he said, pensively. With a soft huff of disbelief he added, "She even took my defence."

Trip studied the lines on Malcolm's face; the dark circles under his eyes. "You look like you're ready to drop. I think I'll order you to bed, Lieutenant."

For the reaction he got, he might as well have ordered him to his execution: Malcolm looked up abruptly.

"You're not serious, are you?"

His voice was... All Trip knew was that it gave him strange vibes. He hadn't meant what he'd said, actually; but now he wasn't so sure any more: a bit of rest might do his friend some good.

"Phlox cleared you only for light duty, didn't he?" he tried.

"He meant I shouldn't do any physically demanding job," Malcolm countered. "Please, Trip," he went on. "If you lock me up in my quarters..." He swallowed, looking strangely brittle. "I don't want to stop and think," he finally confessed.

Trip bit his lip. It wasn't every day that Malcolm Reed admitted to weakness and reached out for help. Well, he was about to do the same.

"I need you, and I need you in good shape," he said after a moment of debate. "I don't like this situation. The Admiral might give another idiotic order and place the ship at risk again, and T'Pol doesn't seem able, or even willin' to stop him."

There was a puzzled pause. Trip watched the meaning of his words slowly sink in.

"What exactly are you saying?" Malcolm finally asked, his voice dropping guardedly low.

Trip didn't avoid the grey eyes, which had turned wary. "I'm sayin' that I'm not gonna stand idle and watch Blake place this crew in danger again because of his incompetence."

Malcolm frowned. "And what would you do?"

"I don't know what I would do," Trip admitted. "But this is Enterprise, Capt'n Archer's ship. And I know he wouldn't let some idiot place the lives of his crew in unnecessary danger."

His heated words left a heavy silence in their wake. Trip held his breath.

"If I get it right, you are asking me to put my career on the line," Malcolm eventually said, looking very directly into Trip's eyes. "More than that, you're asking me to put my honour on the line."

It was true. He had no right. Trip heaved a deep breath. "Look, Malcolm, I… I don't expect you to do anything against your will. I just wanted you to know how I feel about this mess. And if bad comes to worse, well… you just follow your conscience."

Malcolm leaned back, pinching the bridge of his nose. He looked even more troubled than before, which made Trip silently curse. This had accomplished nothing but to add to their worries and miseries. Life was so cruel sometimes. In the space of a few days it had turned tables on them so damn drastically.

"I honestly don't know what I would do if you went against the Admiral, Commander," Malcolm eventually and more officially said, his voice more tired than it had been a moment before. "My loyalty is with this crew. My job is to defend them, but I am a military man, discipline has been my life ever since I can remember. I can't change that."

Trip smiled despite himself. Wasn't that a big part of what made Malcolm Reed the officer they valued and respected? With a flash of intuition he realised that if Malcolm had told him that he'd readily follow him in a mutiny, he'd have been disappointed.

"I know," Trip said warmly. "And I appreciate that, believe me."

Another paused ensued. Trip hoped this conversation would not remain as a thorn in the side of their friendship. The two of them were very different persons, and the bond they had developed was bound to be stretched from time to time. But he didn't want it ever to tear beyond repair. Now that he understood Malcolm's quiet ways a little, and was able to see beyond the fence the man usually put up, he had decided this was a friend he wanted to keep.

"Come on," he said, trying, despite his feelings, to lighten the tone. "Let's finish eating. I won't let you get up before that plate is empty."

Malcolm shot him a look. "I haven't been told that since I was about eight."

Trip lifted his eyebrows. "Not bad for a record, Lieutenant."

TBC

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