Malcolm stopped outside the garden gate, wary of opening it and breaching those few meters that would take him to the door of his parents' home. It had once been his own home too. His and Madeline's - a life ago. He had long left the too narrow confines of those four walls to wander the star systems, and Madeline too had her own life, now. Malcolm let his eyes stray to the neat flowerbeds. It was late summer, and they were still full of blooms that glowed in the mellow sun, giving the place a touch of colour. His mother had always had a green thumb. Nothing seemed changed, yet everything was. And it had taken Earth risking being obliterated from the face of the universe to make him come back to base.
Malcolm put his hand on the latch of the gate. Why on earth had he come, he wondered. This was far from his ideal place for regenerating his mind and body, which their mission in the Expanse had battered and stretched to the limit. But the Enterprise crew had been given shore leave and everyone had been eager to return to their places of origin. He had felt obliged to do the same, wary that going somewhere else would reveal the well-guarded secret of his strained familial relationships. But maybe what had finally swayed him was the fact that, unlike some crewmen - Trip for example -, he had not lost anyone in the Xindi attack, and it had seemed callous to keep away from the people who should be closest to you.
The gate opened with a screech. Malcolm passed through and let it close mechanically behind him. Adjusting the weight of his duffle bag on his right shoulder, he heaved a calming breath and started on the few remaining meters towards the house.
As it happened, he didn't need to ring the bell. He was near the few steps leading to the front door, when this opened, and an older version of his father appeared. His hair had turned whiter not only at the temples, and Malcolm was surprised to feel a twinge of guilt, as if he'd had something to do with that. He probably had, but the feeling was soon gone, chased away by Admiral Reed's customary steely and judgemental eyes, eyes that pinned you to the spot.
"They mentioned on the news that your crew had been given shore leave," Stuart gruffly said after they'd silently sized each other up for what felt like a long moment. No emotion tinged the words. "You might have told us you were coming. Your mother has been worried sick, these past few months."
Malcolm opened his mouth to reply, then reclosed it. He was weary to the bone and in no mood to engage in verbal skirmishes. His father was right, after all, there was no excuse for not advising them of his arrival. Or rather, there had been, a damn good one: he had been reluctant to plan this visit and had let the current drift him, so to speak; but how to make the man understand… "Good to see you too," he mumbled, letting his bag slip off his shoulder onto the steps. It wasn't a great opening, but he was saved by a muffled cry. A moment later he was in his mother's arms.
"Mother," he said into her hair. "Easy, now, I haven't survived the Expanse to be stifled to death by you."
She pushed off him without releasing his arms and ran her eyes over every tired line of his face. Her eyes mellowed. "Come on in, I'll put the kettle on."
As he watched her, a few minutes later, busy herself around the kitchen, Malcolm found it unexpectedly comforting to reacquaint himself with the movements and gestures that had once been part of his daily life. His father, of course, had sheltered, instead, in his study with a "I'll see you once you have settled," to which Malcolm out of habit had replied, "Yes, Sir," as if he were fourteen again, the good little soldier of old.
"Go talk to you father, Malcolm," his mother had meaningfully suggested after she had made sure he'd had tea and biscuits, "he must be waiting for you."
She had always been the one who had tried to bridge their differences. So, the study was where, reluctantly, Malcolm directed his footsteps. In front of the large wooden door, he almost turned around. He dreaded the moment. But after all he wasn't fourteen anymore, and the good little soldier of old had grown into a respected officer of Starfleet's flagship, so he forged ahead, to face the man who should have understood and supported him but never had and probably never would.
Admiral Reed's study had not changed an iota. It was still the same intimidating place Malcolm remembered, lined with books and pictures taken during his father's career in the Royal Navy, obsessively neat - he had to have taken something from his old man, after all - and not particularly well lit, neither by sunlight nor by artificial lighting. You had to look around before you could spot the person inside it, and that gave Stuart brief but sufficient time to assess those who came in. The perfect environment for putting someone to discomfort. His father, Malcolm saw, was sitting in a corner armchair. As Malcolm entered the room, Stuart lifted his eyes from the book he was reading - or just pretending to, for surely, he would be eager to reacquaint himself with his only son after the peril of obliteration?
"Nothing has changed, I see," Malcolm said, taking a few unhurried steps. He went to the desk and stopped, surprised to see a picture of a very young Madeline smiling wildly at the camera with a mouth full of gaps. Maybe something had changed, then. It stood out like a sore thumb, in such serious surroundings. He picked it up, and for a moment it carried him back to a time when things had been easier, in this house. He checked unobtrusively but couldn't find one of himself. Well, it wasn't a mystery that Stuart Reed hadn't taken long to realise that he would have wanted a very different son from the scrawny, allergic, aquaphobic one nature had given him; the son who had broken with tradition and chosen a life on a starship instead of on the sea.
"So, you did find a way," the old man said, out of the blue. "To save Earth," he clarified after a second.
Malcolm replaced the picture and looked up in surprise, but the words apparently didn't have the meaning he had hoped, they weren't a proud acknowledgement of what his son had accomplished: in the grey eyes he could read no trace of that, no hint of warmth. It was like dropping back years, to when he had been a young man with a different dream from this uncompromising man.
"I wouldn't have bet my last penny on it," Stuart added with a lift of the eyebrows.
If a modicum of doubt had remained, there! it was dispelled. Malcolm couldn't suppress an ironic huff. "Well, we were strongly motivated and had a very determined leader."
"Captain Archer? I honestly thought he wouldn't be up to such a formidable challenge."
The statement dripped with that subtle hint of arrogance Malcolm knew so well and really hated.
"To call us all the way from the middle of the universe just to ask about your favourite food because he wanted to surprise you on your birthday!" Stuart shook his head. "It's a wonder he could keep any discipline, on that ship of his."
Malcolm suppressed a surge of irritation, determined not to pick up the gauntlet. There was a time when, because of his upbringing, he had thought much the same about Archer; and - true - he had his personal issues with the man after the Expanse, but there was no denying that without the Captain's strong leadership and those unethical decisions that still gave him hell things would have ended very differently for humankind. He wasn't going to accept criticism of his C.O. from someone who did not know him and was biased to begin with.
"We all did our part, but Captain Archer… Well, without him, our mission would've failed," he said, annoyed with himself for that small hesitance and for the edge in his voice, caused not only by his father's attitude but, undeniably, also by the strain Archer had put on his conscience. As expected, Stuart picked up on it, for he cast him an inquisitive look under knitted eyebrows. Blessedly, he didn't enquire further.
"At least you're showing loyalty to your C.O.," he commented, still studying him closely. "Deserved or not, that's how it should be."
Malcolm tightened his jaw and turned his back on him, pretending to take a sudden interest in the rows of books on the shelves of his father's bookcase. He picked one at random and leafed through it, without seeing a word. All he could think of was that he wanted out of this room, out of this house which only the presence of his mother made a home. With a sudden decision, he clapped the book closed and slid it back in its place, "I think I'll go visit Maddie," he said. And he quickly headed for the door.
Mary Reed placed the cup she had just rinsed on the drainer and passed the back of her hand over her brow leaving it wet. Things between Stuart and Malcolm will never change, she thought with a sigh. She had hoped that her husband would welcome his son if not as the hero the news anchors described, at least as a man in his own right who had done well with his life. But Malcolm had stormed out of Stuart's study after barely fifteen minutes, and she had read on his face the disappointment of old. Things will never change between them - she repeated to herself forlornly.
Lifting her gaze, Mary looked out her kitchen window once again. The window was set at a corner of the house and had an angle view of the front pathway and the park outside it, across the street. She had been watching a figure sitting on a bench under the oak tree, a young man who seemed a bit lost. There was something familiar about him, but at this distance she couldn't tell what it was, therefore if she wanted to satisfy her curiosity there was only one thing to do.
Mary dried her hands on the nearest towel, undid her apron, fluffed up her hair with her hands, and reached for the housekeys hanging on the wall by the kitchen door. A moment later she was at the gate.
The moment Mary stepped out onto the street, the young man, who was leaning over with his elbows on his knees, straightened up and looked her way. Mary recognised him immediately. If he was here, outside their home, he must be waiting for someone, and that someone could only be one person.
"Commander… Tucker, isn't it?" she greeted, going directly up to him.
The young man immediately stood up, dismay flitting across his handsome face as if he were a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "Ma'am," he blurted out. With a shrug and a tentative crooked smile, he added, "Not much of a chance to go unnoticed, I guess."
"Not when you and your crewmates are constantly on the news," Mary replied. "It's a wonder you're not being besieged by a crowd of admirers and could sit undisturbed for the past ten minutes."
The Commander's smile broadened, as if he were amused by the idea that Mary had been watching him, but there was no mistaking the tiredness that lined his face, so like what she'd seen on her own son's. It was more than tiredness, actually; it was something she could not find the right adjective to describe but made her heart clench.
Tucker bit his lower lip. "I was hoping to speak to Malcolm but didn't want to disturb."
"Disturb?" Mary wondered lightly. "Of course not. Only, you'll have to wait for him, for he went to visit his sister and won't be back before supper." Mary caught the slight twitch in the Commander's cheek, a clenching of the jaw that spoke of disappointment. "Come on in, young man," she said firmly, "I'm not going to let you sit here all day when there is a perfectly comfortable living-room a few metres away."
"Ah, no, Ma'am…" Tucker began, wincing, "I…"
Mary waved a dismissive hand in the air. "I won't hear of it, Commander. Come."
Trip stepped into Malcolm's home feeling like a thief. If he'd had some misgivings in the first place coming to England to see his friend at a time when one was supposed to be alone with one's family, entering this house without him made him totally uneasy. He tried not to appear curious about his surroundings, but a part of him absolutely was, because Malcolm had never been very forward in giving information about what he had left behind when he'd joined Starfleet. All that Trip had gleaned was that his friend came from a long line of seamen and his old man would have wanted him to continue with tradition and join the Royal Navy. He understood that Malcolm's choice of career had caused a rift between them.
"I'll make you a cup of tea," Mrs. Reed said, showing him into a cosy living and dining area with a delicate flowery wallpaper. "Or do you prefer coffee?"
Trip tilted his head sideways. "Coffee would be great, Ma'am, if it's not too much trouble."
"No trouble at all, there is water boiling already. I won't be long. Stuart!" Mary Reed called as she presumably headed for the kitchen, "We have a visitor!"
Left alone, Trip looked around. The room was airy and bright, with modern furniture except for the dining set, which was mahogany and had probably been in the family a long time. A moment later there was the sound of a door opening, and Trip turned to see a portly man who bore himself authoritatively coming towards him. There was no mistaking, this was Admiral Reed. Despite being taller and much heftier than Malcolm, the resemblance was there, hidden beneath eyes that even at a distance he could see were the colour of his son's, a sunless November sky.
Trip extended his hand in greeting. "Commander Charles Tucker, Sir," he said, "pleased to meet you." And because the other man, after glancing briefly at the proffered appendage, made no move to shake it, he found himself falling virtually into attention stance.
"I know who you are," Malcolm's father replied. He frowned "Is there a problem, Commander?" he wondered, "Are you here on duty?"
"Er, not exactly, Sir."
If only, Trip found himself thinking with sudden anguish. He was here because he badly needed a friend. He was here because one day with his maimed family had been enough to make him book a flight; for, much as he loved his parents, seeing their pain renewed every time they looked at their son and inevitably remembered their lost daughter, their beautiful, vaporized daughter…
He was here, also, because his heart was broken. He had witnessed T'Pol marry Koss in that sham of a ceremony where both had known that she was doing the wrong thing, but there was no way he could lean on his family for comfort, for they already had their share of grief. So, he had...
"Son?"
The word, with its charge of perplexity, brought him back to the present. Mary Reed had joined them and was standing before him with a tray that carried a pot of steaming coffee, cups of fine porcelain, and a plate of cookies. Trip swallowed hard against the knot that, unwillingly, had formed in his throat. He realised with a thump of the heart that his face had shown too much. It didn't help that his eyes stung.
"I'm sorry," he muttered. He felt trapped in a very uncomfortable situation. "Maybe I'd better come back later." Giving Mrs. Reed a shaky smile, he made to leave.
"Please stay, Commander," she said in earnest, "you're very welcome here."
Trip hesitated, his heart still in turmoil; but the expectancy in Mrs. Reed's eyes finally won. "Alright," he yielded. "After all, I could do with a cup of coffee, and it would be a shame if it went to waste."
"It would indeed."
The sun returning to Mary Reed's face, she preceded them into the living-room, setting down the tray on a low table in front of the dark green sofa. Trip followed her, uncomfortably aware of the fact that Admiral Reed, instead, was still standing at the entrance of the room. Unlike his wife, he was making him feel rather unwelcome, and Trip wondered if it was at all intentional.
"Stuart," Mary said with a meaningful glace at her husband, "aren't you going to join us?"
For a moment it looked as if the Admiral was going to find some excuse and leave; but then he broke his immobility and took a seat in one of two winged armchairs, reaching for a pipe and pouch of tobacco that lay on a side table near the chair - obviously his customary one -, as if he needed to busy himself with something to do. Deliberately avoiding Trip's gaze, he stuffed his pipe with more care than seemed necessary and stroke an old-fashioned match to light it. In the meantime, Mary had poured out the coffee and was handing Trip a cup of it.
"Milk?" she asked.
"No, thank you, Ma'am."
"Malcolm forgot to mention you were visiting," Stuart abruptly butted in, his face straight. "Typical…"
"You're welcome to stay for as long as you wish," Mary said with a quelling glance at her husband. "We have two spare bedrooms now that Madeline has her own place."
In a hurry to set things straight, Trip swallowed the sip of coffee he had taken a bit too quickly, feeling the liquid burn a hot path down his throat. "I'm just passing by for the day," he clarified. "Malcolm…" He tried not to wince. "Well, to be honest he doesn't even know I'm in England."
"Oh?" Mary Reed sought the eyes of her husband, and they exchanged a startled look, which she promptly chased away as she turned to Trip again. "Well, I'm sure he'll be very happy to find you here, what a nice surprise."
An awkward silence fell for a long moment, as each sought a subject of conversation. Spirals of smoke swirled towards the ceiling, mesmerizing Trip.
"You had a very difficult mission," Mary said at length, "Earth is truly grateful to be still in one piece…"
She probably thought it was the thing to say. Except that it was the last thing Trip wanted to talk about. In one piece! Trip reflected bitterly, sorrow swelling once again in his chest as he thought of the swathe that had killed millions plus one, destroying among other things his hometown and family peace. He felt his breathing catch and took another sip of coffee, hiding behind the rim of the cup; but his hand was slightly shaky, so he put it down before he spilt the dark liquid all over.
He was fully aware of what an open book his face was. Damn, but he couldn't stay - what - hours? waiting in this house, making Malcolm's parents uneasy with the obvious sight of his inner turmoil and himself feeling like he was sitting on needles. He had to leave. He raked a hand through his hair. Accepting Mary Reed's invitation had been a mistake. Coming to England had been a mistake. His eyes began to sting again, and he jumped a bit too abruptly to his feet.
"Thank you for coffee, Ma'am, Sir," he said in a choked voice, "I think I'll-"
"Running won't take away your troubles, Commander," Admiral Reed's stern voice admonished, cutting him off. Having been a commanding officer, it carried the assurance that derived from experience, from having been in charge and maybe there a few times.
Trip swallowed hard, as he met the man's unwavering eyes. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he felt his fingers get wet. "Believe me, I'm finding that out by myself," he bitterly admitted.
"Stuart," Mary Reed said in a quiet voice, giving her husband a meaningful glance. One word. He looked back at her like saying What on earth do expect me to do? But she collected her cup and left, closing the sliding doors behind her.
Silence enveloped them for at least one long minute. Stuart Reed was the first to move. Sitting forward, he poured some more coffee in their cups with the slight awkwardness of someone who generally has that done for him. Then he struck another match, for his pipe had gone out, and waited until the tobacco had caught fire before sitting back. He looked in no hurry to breach the silence.
Too weary to keep up appearances, Trip let his posture sag. "Admiral, this isn't… I don't think I oughtta be here."
"Perhaps. Or perhaps, Commander, it is not a bad thing that you are," Malcolm's father said, a touch gruffly. "Chance has a way of putting us in the right place, sometimes." He drew on his pipe, and the room began to fill with the sweet scent of tobacco. Waving a quick hand to disperse it, he indicated the remaining seats. "Sit down."
It was virtually an order, but Trip looked at the armchair he had just vacated moments before with longing, for the tension and time shift were beginning to get to him. He dropped back into it and reached for his refilled cup without even asking, badly in need of caffeine. At least Stuart Reed looked just as unexpectedly thrown into this situation as he, which was a small comfort.
"Why have you come here, Mister Tucker?" the Admiral asked.
A direct question, which expected a direct answer. Well, nothing like the truth, Trip thought. "I needed to see a friend," he said, eyes on the floor. "It was a spur of the moment's decision, that's why Malcolm doesn't know I'm here."
A beat of surprise, and Stuart gave a sarcastic harrumph. "A friend? Malcolm?"
Trip lifted his gaze in time to see him raise snow-white eyebrows in disbelief.
"Malcolm doesn't make friends. Besides, aren't you his superior officer? There's no place for friendship between officers, let alone of different rank."
The tone had been final. Trip was beginning to see some of the difficulties Malcolm might have encountered growing up with such a parent. How he would've been led to withdraw into himself, to protect his inner world from such an unbending and military man. Why he might have wanted to join Starfleet thousands of miles away.
"Well, Sir," Trip carefully countered, "yes, that's how it is, technically. But when you're on a small spaceship in the middle of the universe trying to defend Earth from destruction and your crewmates are all you can rely on, they become more than friends, they're like family. In certain situations, by the book is not enough."
Stuart Reed cast him a disparaging glance, obviously finding such a concept outlandish. "Discipline is all you can rely on," he insisted. "Without discipline, without the chain of command, you can manage neither a ship nor a starship."
Trip clenched his jaw. What did this self-assured man know about hanging on by a thread because your ship, under attack, is falling apart all around you, and your only hope comes from knowing that every single fellow crew man and woman is going to do their jobs beyond the call of duty to defend her because they are also defending their family among the stars?
"I told my son I hadn't expected your mission to succeed, that I hadn't considered your Captain up to the task," the Admiral went on, piercing Trip's grim thoughts. "It was a miracle that it did, with such a leader."
It was a shocking thing to say without qualms to someone who, rightfully or wrongfully it didn't matter, was being hailed as a hero on every news programme around the world; and who had just shown him his frailty. Trip willed his face to harden into a mask while he looked for something to reply. As it was, he didn't have to.
"I'm only glad Malcolm had the good taste to defend his C.O.," Reed Sr. continued, "as well he should. However, I know when my son doesn't make a clean breast. Something troubled him, but he avoided to discuss the issue and stormed out. He's such a stubborn mule…" he concluded, almost to himself.
Stubborn Malcolm certainly was, but did Stuart know his son at all? Did he know about his courage and staunchness, his competence and selflessness? Did he know about Malcolm's sensitive and generous nature? There was more to Malcolm than his stubbornness.
Suddenly, the grey eyes, which were so much like those of a certain Lieutenant, pinned him. "Don't make the same mistake, young man." the Admiral warned. "If you have a problem, have the courage to face it."
Trip frowned. "Is that what you think?" he wondered with a huff of disbelief, "That Malcolm didn't talk to you because he lacked the courage?" He shook his head. "Let me tell you, Sir, there isn't a person I'd trust with my life more than you son. He went above and beyond the call of duty to keep us alive and safe. There isn't an ounce of cowardice in him. But you're right that he's stubborn; if he won't tell he won't tell, unless ya know how to get him to open up."
A tiny flicker of something that smacked of curiosity appeared in the Admiral's eyes. He lowered them immediately, as if afraid to show it.
"You wondered about our friendship," Trip went on, for the words now came easily enough. "Well, it happened that time on Shuttlepod One, when Malcolm and I were about to take the big jump. Nothing like bein' certain you're gonna die to show your true colours. Each of us found out there was more to the stiff upper lipped Brit and charmin' Southerner than it appeared; and that despite our differences, or maybe because of them, we made a great team."
His accent had gradually slipped, but he didn't care. Stuart's expression, however, left him displaced. The man didn't seem to know what Trip was talking about. Trip felt his heart constrict. Had Malcolm never told his old man about that scrape with death? Had he ever told him anything about his mission? What was wrong with them both! Would they have gone into oblivion, vaporised by the Xindi probe, without ever telling each other things like I miss you, I'm proud of you?
He raked a hand through his hair, suddenly missing the warmth of his folks. "Ya know, it's probably not my place to say this to you, Admiral, but make no mistake, Malcolm is one hell of an officer." He lifted rather sarcastic eyebrows. "Just in case ya were wonderin'."
His accent and manners had slipped. He expected a well-deserved reprimand, but Stuart, instead, flicked him an enigmatic look.
"I didn't raise my son to be a slouch, Commander," he simply bit back. "Therefore, I'm happy to hear he carries himself in a way befitting an officer."
A way befitting… Trip felt fidgety. The conversation had taken a tricky turn and he didn't know how to set it right again; so, not caring whether it would be considered polite, he got up and walked unhurriedly to the long sideboard near the dining table, in a corner of the room, where he absentmindedly passed a finger over the edge of a large, decorated plate holding a few assorted fruits. His eye was caught by an array of pictures set at one end of the piece of furniture. Among them, there was one of a young Malcolm, a thin and pale boy of about seven on a small sailing boat. It was the only one about him of the lot. What Trip surmised being Malcolm's sister Madeline was portrayed at various stages of her life, from baby to young woman, but Malcolm… it was as if Malcolm had died prematurely, only surviving in that old, faded shot. Except that he wasn't dead, was he? Unlike someone else's daughter, he thought with another stab of pain. Damn! This man didn't know how lucky he was!
He turned to Stuart Reed, a core of anger making his stomach clench. "Do you have any idea how many times you came close to losin' him in these three years? Do you know how painful it is to lose-" His throat constricted, choking out the rest, for he knew very well, indeed. And he hadn't only lost Elizabeth, lost her without even a grave on which to weep, he had also lost T'Pol, who had married a man she hardly knew. The nightmarish image of Elizabeth engulfed by fire, the one that had woken him up at night in a sweat, merged into that of T'Pol dressed in a Vulcan ceremonial robe, and he squeezed his eyes shut, hiding behind a hand.
He had to leave. He had to! Surely Admiral Reed would be glad to get rid of this unwanted, hyper-emotional visitor. An unexpected request froze him in place.
"Tell me about it, son," a firm but not unsympathetic voice prompted him. "Is that why you're here and not with your family?"
This certainly didn't sound like the same Admiral Reed who kept you at arm's length with his air of authority and arrogance. Was there after all a perceptive and caring side to the man? Trip wondered if he had ever let Malcolm catch a glimpse of it, for there was no mistaking that Stuart had raised his son with an iron rod.
Trip swallowed hard. The words spilled out of him almost without him knowing. "Yeah... I lost my sister in the Xindi attack. I spent a day with my parents, then ran away," he croaked out. "Every time they looked at me, they were reminded of their lost daughter. And so was I. I came from a difficult mission and couldn't bear to have such pain constantly renewed." Plus I'm in love with our Second in Command, who just married another man in front of my very eyes, he wanted to scream. But that he kept for himself.
"And don't you think that parents also suffer seeing a son run away from them?"
The question was a double-edged sword; because it wasn't only Trip who had run away from his family: Malcolm had 'stormed out', and the Admiral clearly ached about it.
"Malcolm hasn't lost anyone in the attack," Stuart, indeed, reflected darkly, "yet he too is running. I realise we are not family enough for him to unburden himself with us; perhaps you could shed some light?"
Trip felt for the old man. Given what Stuart had told him, he had a strong suspicion he knew what had made Malcolm run, what he could not tell his father, the compromises he had accepted because of his strong sense of duty, the guilt he must feel for betraying the ethics this man had clearly instilled in him from day one. How could the conflicted Lieutenant tell this stout Admiral that on Archer's orders he had obliterated a lunar colony in cold blood and helped steal a warp core from innocent people, stranding them lightyears away from home? Of course, Malcolm had stormed out when Stuart had criticised Archer! But this was something his friend would have to deal with himself.
Trip slowly shook his head. "I'm sorry, Admiral, but you'll have to ask your son about it." He engaged the man's gaze to let him read in his eyes that although he wasn't going to play any games, he was truly sorry about it.
"Of course," Reed muttered after a moment, putting down his cup, "I understand."
Trip wondered how many families were in this situation now, after the Xindi attack, grieving the dead, or unable to communicate.
"Permission to speak freely, Sir?" he asked spur of the moment, suddenly feeling as if he were back in uniform and obliged to show proper form. Stuart looked at him long and hard, then silently nodded. Trip steadied himself. "Malcolm told me you were disappointed when he chose Starfleet, but you have no idea how proud you should be of what he's accomplished."
Stuart's hard mask cracked fractionally, but enough to show the conflict behind it. "Then tell me about him. You can at least tell me about him," he insisted.
Well, that was unexpected. Trip filled his lungs with air, straightening his shoulders.
It was a long account and a very truthful one. Trip told him how he'd initially taken Malcolm to be a stuck-up S.O.B. but how he'd slowly gotten intrigued by the silent young Lieutenant who had accepted that he must stay alone and wounded in a cave with hostile Novans to help Archer convince them that Humans were to be trusted; how they'd worked their asses off, side by side, to build the phase cannons and he had wrongly got mad at him; how they'd both gotten in trouble with Archer at that repair station but had ended up saving the life of their helmsman; how Malcolm had agreed to undergo a brutal beating to get their Captain back from a different timeline; how, pinned to Enterprise's hull by a Romulan mine, he had been ready to sacrifice his life to save the rest of the crew, and how Archer, their undisciplined captain, had instead found a way to save them all; what a brilliant mind Stuart's son had, his experimental work with force fields, which had come in handy a few times; how he'd trained a small colony of miners to fight off some tyrannical Klingons; how he'd lost his communicator and almost got hanged, ready to follow his captain to the noose to obey him; of all the times he had rescued one or more of them…
When he came to the last leg of their mission, that past, horrible year, it got very difficult. Trip's heart was in a vice. One had to have been there to understand the sea-saw of hope and despair… But Trip forged ahead for he saw that Stuart, behind a straight and taut face, was eager to hear. He kept, of course, for himself the most delicate issues. And, in a way, it ended up being good for his soul too, remembering how desperately they had fought to save their planet, what they had gone through together. There was a lot to be said about letting things out instead of keeping them inside. Maybe he really ought to have done this with his family, faced their pain together, instead of flying off and ending up talking to a man he barely knew.
Silence fell in the room, but it was not like before, when it had made them both uneasy. Stuart Reed seemed lost in his thoughts. After a long while he emerged from them, and it was with a different look in his eyes.
"That stubbornness I talked about before... I'm afraid it's a family trait," he admitted, though his voice did not waver, as befitted his persona. "Thank you for making me see past it, Commander."
Trip felt a genuine smile bud on his face. "My pleasure." He jerked his head to one side. "But I owe you too. Recalling these past three years made me unburden some of the weight I've been carrying around. You were right, running away didn't take away my troubles and probably hurt those I love. I think I may be ready to take that plane back to my folks now," he concluded. "So, if I may say good-bye to Mrs. Reed…"
"Will you not wait for Malcolm?" Stuart wondered in surprise, pushing up from his armchair.
"Nah. I'd only be in the way. This is a time for bein' with one's own. Besides… I've already found the friend I needed."
It was with a weight on his heart that Trip returned to the Enterprise when his shore leave was up. It wasn't only because he was more than a little apprehensive about seeing T'Pol again: he had not contacted Malcolm, nor had he received any news from him. He kept telling himself that it was because he'd been absorbed by his family, but deep down he knew that he'd felt more than a little guilty for rushing off without waiting to see him. He almost hoped his parents had not told him of his visit, but it was really a far-off chance, and he knew Malcolm would have been disappointed. He also wondered if things between Malcolm and his father had improved at all, for the Admiral had genuinely seemed affected by what he had told him.
The ship was bustling with activity. Trip nodded back to the people who saluted as he passed through the corridors headed for his quarters, landing a friendly pat on the shoulder and exchanging a brief word with those he worked more closely with. The turbo lift door opened, and a familiar face appeared.
"Commander," Phlox greeted him jovially. "Nice to see you!" An octave lower, he added, "You're just about the last one back on board. Only T'Pol, I believe, will beat you."
"T'Pol?" Trip wondered, his heart skipping a beat.
Suddenly, Phlox seemed to remember. He lowered his voice. "She was delayed but is due tomorrow."
Trip waved a reproachful finger. "Well, don't you try to make me feel guilty, Doc, I'm here with time to spare," he said, eager to divert the attention from that subject of conversation. He stepped aside to let Phlox exit the lift.
"Ah, yes. Half an hour." Phlox's buoyant smile fell as he took Trip aside. "Tell me, how was your time off?" he asked, turning professional.
In the Expanse, Trip had been a regular patient, because of his insomnia. "It was… unusual," he replied truthfully. "Tell you all about it later." He entered the lift and turned. "I think I'll be okay, though," he put in just as the door closed.
Relieved that he wouldn't risk bumping into T'Pol just yet, Trip had buried himself in Engineering, losing himself in work. When the alpha shift was near the end, however, he knew he could no longer delay meeting a certain Lieutenant, or it would seem contrived.
Outside the Armoury, he took a deep breath, then opened the hatch and peaked inside. Malcolm was giving last-minute instructions to the beta shift crew. As always very aware of what happened around him, he cast a quick glance his way, but in typical Malcolm style nothing transpired from his expression.
"So, here you are," was Malcolm's atypical greeting as he joined Trip at the hatch a few moments later. Given Trip's qualms it did nothing to reassure him. "Have you come for the Armoury Officer or...?"
"Just wanted to say hi," Trip quickly put in.
Malcolm came out into the corridor, closed the hatch, and jerked his head in the direction of the turbo lift. "Shall we?"
"When did you get back?" Trip asked to break the silence, after he had fallen in step with him.
"Last night. You?"
Trip gave out a soft huff. "I cut it a bit closer, got back this morning, half an hour before the shift started." Malcolm cast him one of his looks, but Trip didn't give him time to comment. "Found your Armoury in good enough shape?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact." They got to the lift and waited for it arrive. "The lads here at Jupiter Station have done a very good job.
Trip hardly registered the meaning of the words. He licked his lips. "Listen... wanna join me for a bite to eat?"
Malcolm seemed to consider the question, and Trip raked a nervous hand through his hair. Gawd, he wished the man let something through sometimes!
"All right," Malcolm finally agreed. The lift arrived; they entered it, and he pressed the button to the right deck. He gave Trip a tight smile. "Who knows, perhaps Chef has brought back some new recipes."
The Mess Hall cabinets did hold a few new entries, and they both chose from them. The place was just beginning to fill with people.
They settled down at a table. Malcolm spread his napkin, lifted a forkful of rolled spaghetti from which something red and curly dangled, held it in front of him, engaged Trip's gaze, and innocently asked, "So, tell me, how did you get on with my parents?"
Putting down his own fork, Trip leaned back in his chair forlornly. Well, Malcolm had never been one to beat around the bush. "Damn, Malcolm, I'm sorry," he said, his heart in the words. "I was gonna tell you, except..." He jerked his head sideways. "Are ya mad at me?"
Eyebrows lifted, Malcolm studied him long and hard. "A bit hurt, perhaps," he eventually replied. "It seems odd that you should come to England without telling me, show up at my parents' place, and not even wait for me." A muscle in his jaw twitched. "The thing is, my parents didn't tell me much about it, except that you had coffee and a chat, and then had to leave in a hurry. It got me concerned that you might have left because my father was his usual ill-disposed self and treated you inhospitably."
"In-hos-pitably?" Trip's face relaxed. "Nah. We did have coffee and a good chat." He took in Malcolm's wary look and sighed. "Alright, in the beginning it was a bit shaky, but it was just fine in the end."
"Shaky how?"
"Well, ya know, they didn't expect me... The Admiral thought I'd come on duty." He chuckled. "Maybe he thought I'd come to drag you back." Seeing Malcolm's straight face, he sobered up and shrugged. "My leaving in a rush had nothin' to do with that, believe me. Your mom is very sweet, by the way."
Malcolm finally shoved the by then cold morsel of pasta into his mouth, taking his eyes off Trip, who picked up his own fork again, though he really wasn't very hungry. He studied his friend. Malcolm had left it at that, but his focus seemed inward, which meant he was still mulling about it. Trip heaved an inner sigh. He owed his friend more.
"Your old man," he ventured, "he's a real solid fella."
Looking up from his plate, Malcolm tightened his lips then irritably shifted his gaze to the floor. "That's one way of putting it. He was his usual annoying self, that's why I got out of the house as fast as I could and went to see Maddie," he spat out. But then a frown came to crease his brow and he shot Trip a guarded glance.
"What?" Trip wondered.
"Nothing. Just that this time, in the end, he wasn't totally obnoxious."
Trip broke into a wide grin, heaving a silent breath of relief. "That's nice to know."
All thought of food forgotten, Malcolm paused and pinned Trip with another one of his unavoidable looks. "You didn't by any chance have anything to do with that, did you?" he wondered suspiciously.
"Me?"
"You still haven't told me why you visited."
There was no way to avoid a truthful answer, not with this perspicacious man eagerly waiting for one. "I... was a bit messed up," Trip admitted. "More than a bit, actually. T'Pol gettin' married... being with my folks after Elizabeth's death..." He shrugged. "I couldn't face it. I didn't know where to go, so I came to see you."
Malcolm's expression mellowed, as his shoulders slumped. "Sorry I wasn't there for you," he said in the deep voice of empathy. "I would've been, though, had you given me the chance. Why on earth didn't you wait for me!"
"Hey, no worries. My fault entirely," Trip insisted. "I had to catch a plane." It was a bit of a sorry excuse, Trip knew it. Come to England for just a few hours? Indeed, it won him a strange look.
"I'd have been more than happy for the company, too," Malcolm commented drearily, his focus returning to his own familial problems. "Not a fan of staying at home with my parents, especially now that Maddie has her own life."
Trip moved his food around thoughtfully. He knew he owed Malcolm a better explanation, and he felt that what he had to say was important. "The real reason why I left in such a hurry, actually," he forced out, capturing his friend's attention, "was that I'd found what I needed. I'd found a friend. That chat I had with your dad... I showed him a few things, he showed me a few others... And suddenly I realised I should go back to my folks. 'Cause before... Well, before it had proven too painful."
The expression on Malcolm's face was a mixture of surprise and disbelief, and Trip winced. "Ever wonder why we're the worst at communicating with the people we are close to?" he went on. "Why they hurt us the most? And we hurt them the most?" He gave a meaningful huff of a laugh. "I think it's because love gets in the way."
"Now, really, Trip," Malcolm said almost angrily, as if the idea wounded him.
"Really," Trip countered dead serious.
They studied each other for a long moment. Trip knew he had at least given his friend enough food for thought, that his words, for better or for worse, had affected him. Then, the doors of the Captain's Mess opened, and Archer appeared. He looked around and made a beeline for their table.
"Capt'n," Trip greeted him, as Malcolm straightened his back.
"As you were." Archer put a hand on Trip's shoulder, something he hadn't done in a long time. "Did you get a good rest?"
Trip was pleased to see that he looked better from the taut and exhausted man that had miraculously come back to them. "It was interesting, as shore leaves go," he replied, shooting a smile at Malcolm, who blinked a warning. "I - I spent it mostly with my family."
Archer seemed intrigued but didn't ask, turning instead to his Armoury Officer. "And you, Lieutenant. Did you do anything special?"
Malcolm licked his lips. "No, Sir. Though my time off seems to have had decidedly... educational implications."
Archer's eyebrows met over lips that pulled enigmatically to one side. "Remind me to ask you both what that means, sometime," he chuckled, sounding for a moment like the light-hearted captain of old. And with a warm smile he left to greet other crewmen.
"So, what upgrades have the Jupiter Station guys done to your weapons?" Trip asked, eager to turn the page. His appetite seemed to be back. He speared a morsel of something green and started eating with gusto.
Malcolm followed his movements for a moment; then, shaking his head, resumed attacking his spaghetti. "The phase cannons' emitters were..."
And he launched into a lengthy explanation. There was nothing like asking Malcolm about his weapons to get the man going. "Sounds great," Trip commented at the end, though his thoughts had drifted off at some point. He lifted his arms and stretched. As a first day back, it had been tiring enough.
Malcolm finished his coffee and put down his cup with finality. Of one accord, they got up and left the Hall, heading for their quarters.
As they walked companionably along the corridor, Malcolm cast Trip a confused glance. "As friends go," he reflected, "I never would've guessed that you'd find one in my father, of all people." He stopped, obliging Trip to do the same and face him. "But what did you tell him? Because when I came back that night, I swear, something had changed in the man."
"I just told him about our mission," Trip explained with a shrug, "told him about you." He didn't need to add the details, Malcolm was sharp enough to know without spelling it all out. He did, however, look a bit shocked at the revelation, boring into Trip with a long and hard stare that prompted him to add, "Don't worry, I didn't share any... delicate issues. Only wanted him to see that you might not be English Navy but are a fine officer, and that..." He blinked and finished past a knot in his throat, "... that he's lucky to still have you."
Malcolm's expression reshaped from shocked to concerned. He sighed, then commented darkly, "We never did manage to communicate."
Trip flicked him a sympathetic glance. "Ah, it's like I said, those who are closest to us..." A strange image formed in his mind. "That day... I think we both needed a friend," he said, focussing on it. "We were both in a cage and didn't know how to get out of it. As it happened, we held the key to each other's prison; we reached out and..."
"My old man, reaching out for help? Are you sure we're talking of the same person?" Malcolm commented, his voice oozing scepticism.
Trip rolled his eyes. "Don't be as stubborn as a mule," he quoted. "Tall, stout, authoritative, white hair, grey eyes, smokes a pipe, answers to the name of Stuart?"
Malcolm opened his mouth to say something, then reclosed it. A couple of crewmen appeared, and they resumed on their way. "Wish I'd been the proverbial fly on the wall," he commented, after a few steps.
Malcolm's quarters were the first they reached. The man got in and turned. "Tomorrow we'll launch again, eighty-four souls on a ship in the middle of deep space... You do know that if you need a friend you don't need to wait for the next shore leave on Earth," he said, crossing his arms over his chest, for talking about feelings always made him a bit uneasy.
Trip grinned. "Actually, I was thinkin' of writing to your dad instead," he joked. But the thought of seeing T'Pol the next day sobered him up pretty fast. "I might take you up on that offer sooner than you think," he said, his smile turning into a wince.
Malcolm averted his gaze, as if wary of intruding into Trip's emotions. "I'm afraid I don't hold the key to open that specific cage," he said perspicaciously in a deep voice, "but I'll be there."
Yeah, no one holds that key, Trip mulled. Then he straightened his slumped shoulders. "I'll be okay," he said. And he would be. He loved his life on Enterprise too much to let anything get in the way.
"So, when can you come to check the upgrades to the torpedo launchers' system?" Malcolm asked, out of the blue.
Trip frowned. "Torpedo launchers?"
"Weren't you listening to me in the Mess Hall?"
"Sorry," Trip spluttered self-consciously.
Malcolm shook his head, but a small smile graced his lips. His deep gaze bore into Trip. "The Jupiter Station lads may be the best, but I still trust the Chief Engineer more, and I need his okay, before I feel comfortable using the launchers."
It was his way of saying thank you. "Be there tomorrow morning first thing," Trip said. He flipped a salute. "Night, Lieutenant."
No matter what, it was nice to be back on board, to fall back into his routine, he mused as he walked to his own quarters. Yes, tomorrow they'd launch again, eighty-four souls on a ship in the middle of deep space... and it would be like the first time. Well, almost like the first time, for what had happened in the last year would mark their lives forever; but they would return to be space explorers, that was the important thing.
They would reach out. Not for help, not for a key to open a cage, but into the unknown, to discover the mysteries of the universe.