Accidentally, Like a Martyr

Trip stared at Jon's tense face, seeing the concern and anxiety clearly written on it. He thought that perhaps his own expression echoed the captain's. Trip shot one look over his shoulder as T'Pol calmly tended to Hoshi, then returned his attention to piloting the shuttle back to the ship.

They'd barely made it out of there, the margin of their escape so thin that Trip knew he'd have nightmares for weeks to come.

"How is she?" Jon asked, breaking the strained silence.

"Doctor Phlox should be able to save her leg," T'Pol replied, her tight emotional control a welcomed relief. Trip flicked another glance at their unconscious linguist, numbly registering that the bleeding had stopped, T'Pol having bound Hoshi's thigh with a makeshift tourniquet.

Trip looked at the empty seat behind Jon, the one Malcolm should have been sitting in. Would have been sitting in, if they hadn't left him behind.

But they hadn't a choice at the time.

***

Phlox met them at the shuttlebay, a team ready with a gurney to take Hoshi into surgery.

"We have to go back," Jon said, watching them carry Hoshi through the doors.

"We cannot rush into an ill planned rescue attempt. We may be able to negotiation with the Kriom after they have finished interrogating the Lieutenant," T'Pol countered with her usual calm reason.

Jon spun on her. "Interrogating?"

"That would be their first reaction." She cut her eyes away from his. "They can be quite barbaric," she said softly, "but if they receive the information they want, they may be persuaded to release him afterwards…"

"Start scanning for his biosigns and get me all the information you can about their methods, what sort of information they'd be after—"

"Since they know the Lieutenant's position, they will be asking about our offensive capabilities. If it had been another member of our away team, then they would attempt to extract information regarding that person's speciality." She looked at Jon. "I shall endeavor to locate him as quickly as possible and have Tanner begin to formulate a recovery plan." She turned to go and then stopped. "It was not your fault, sir."

Jon stared at her and then nodded. He and Trip watched her leave.

"It wasn't your fault, Cap'n. Starfleet ordered us into this situation and we took every precaution," Trip said, studying the man before him. "You did everything you possibly could to insure the safety of the away team."

"Obviously not enough, Trip."

***

Malcolm knew what human interrogation methods were. Sleep and sensory deprivation, threats, infliction of pain and ultimately the use of drugs. Sometimes the steps were altered, and he had found that some species when straight for the pain first. When interrogating a prisoner you didn't want him to think that you were getting desperate, escalating the abuse until physical torture was a last resort. Hard to get information from a corpse and if the prisoner could withstand the pain, then he could remain silent, knowing his interrogators had played their last hand.

His captors had immediately tried the drug route but his alien physiology thwarted those attempts. He thought this last one was suppose to make him talk freely, but all it had done was keep him painfully alert and restless, unable to sleep or stop jittering. The first one had made him laugh uncontrollably, even as they kicked and punched him, angry at his response. The second one merely kept him mute, huddled in the corner of this cell, oblivious to anything around him.

Malcolm was grateful that the Kriom's efforts had failed so far. He knew that he couldn't give them any information about the Enterprise's defensive capabilities. A combative species, the Kriom had warp capable ships, but they were very small, and the size of the Enterprise had been intimidating and intriguing to them.

However, scans had shown that the Kriom had weapons that could destroy the Enterprise if enough ships were used in concert. Enterprise could outrun them and he hoped Jon would have enough sense to do so. But Malcolm knew, with unfailing trust and certitude, that Jon would never leave a crewmember behind. Especially his lover.

Ex-lover, Malcolm revised.

He scrubbed a hand over his face again, wincing at the tender bruise on his cheek, feeling the stubble covering his skin. About three, maybe four days growth he reckoned, his only means of telling how long he'd been there. The absence of light, the pitch black of this humid little room too small to stand up fully, made it impossible to gauge the passage of time. The constant thunderous hiss of white noise that filled this confined space prevented him from hearing anything, not even his own quiet breathing. He couldn't smell anything, not even himself, although he was sure he stank, his clammy sweat stained Kriom issued garments a testament to that fact. The tasteless and odorless bread-like crusts they fed him once in a while had a smooth texture, the water tepid and bland.

Occasionally questions would be barked at him over the incessant drone of the white noise, the same ones over and over again for what seemed like hours on end, but he wasn't sure. He did push ups and sits up on this narrow pallet to keep himself entertained. Like the questions, it broke up the monotony.

He hadn't been allowed to sleep much; not that he would be able to right now. Earlier, each time he had dozed off, he was awakened with an uncomfortable shock, no matter where he lay or sat in this room. He supposed that he was under surveillance at all times, infrared monitors insuring that his captors were notified every time he tried to nap, the whole room wired to give off a scathing current of electricity. He had amused himself by making every obscene gesture he could think of, including some alien ones Hoshi had taught him. Perhaps his captors would find one of them offensive.

He kept his eyes open, staring into the void, not wanting to be shocked again by closing them for too long. He fidgeted constantly, unable to help himself. He thought about Jon, and the mysterious PADD that had shown up in his quarters one evening.

Malcolm had looked at the PADD lying neatly on his bunk. He hadn't left it there and he quickly checked to see if anything in his room was out of place, but nothing else had been disturbed. Malcolm had flipped it on, and there he saw a report of the last planet they had visited, Strolof, a social history of a sorts, with several paragraphs flagged and highlighted.

He read with a baffled interest, then increasing disbelief of the custom of using something called kiltoch on one's partner to enhance their pleasure or to verify their love. His disbelief turned to dismay as he read what the drug did, as well as the signs of an overdose.

He had tossed the PADD aside and called up all the information he could from the databases, confirming what he had just read. A thread of anger began to smoldered as he unconsciously rubbed his neck.

It had been over a month since returning from that planet, and he thought, with a faintly sick feeling to his stomach, that he must have been under the influence of that alien drug in the intervening time. It would account for his inexplicable acquiescence to Jon's requests.

Three times since returning from Strolof they had made violent love, Malcolm successfully fisting Jon on two occasions, and Malcolm had reveled in it, much to his disgust the next day, enjoying the aggressive, sadistic satisfaction he found in making Jon hoarsely scream in pleasure/pain. At his lover's urging he had enthusiastically mauled Jon, breaking the skin, leaving thin welts, his fingers digging in so hard that he had left livid bruises. He had battered Jon mercilessly, fucking him violently, plunging his full length into him over and over again. Both times he had bitten Jon hard, drawing blood, as Jon came.

And each morning after, Malcolm would wonder why he hadn't refused. Why he couldn't refuse. And each time, as Jon had again put the leather bindings around his wrists and the collar about neck, he had wanted to say no, but didn't. Could not. He had been bound to bed, unable to escape, and the last time Jon had choked him to the point that he had felt the blood drumming in his head, Jon pounding his ass, and black spots dancing before his eyes, unable to breathe, suffocating slowly. And he had come with a strangled cry, his orgasm unbelievably heightened, head yanked back and Jon looming over him. Jon came with harsh guttural shout and had collapsed upon Malcolm's back, releasing his twisted hold on the collar, his weight driving his lover into the mattress. Malcolm gasped for air, sweat pouring off him, lying in a hot sticky mass of his own seed, too exhausted, too weak, to move.

That time Jon had gently washed him, kissing the marks on his wrists and neck. Contented satiation mixed with revulsion as Malcolm drifted off, incapable of even answering Jon's soft inquiry asking if he was all right.

But reading the information on the PADD, the information in the database—it all made sense to him now. And his anger had grown.

Malcolm sighed, not hearing it over the white noise, and shifted on the hard slab. He continued to move, propping his bare feet against the low ceiling, walking them fitfully over the smooth surface, the closest to pacing he was capable of in these circumstances.

He had confronted Jon. Accused him and listened to his lover's denial. Followed by his lover's reluctant confession of using the kiltoch on him that night on the planet. Then his excuses, that he had done it for Malcolm's sake, because he loved him. And finally Jon's apology, that he regretted it, the remorse he felt, and swearing that he hadn't done anything since.

Malcolm had wanted to believe him. Tried to. But he couldn't.

Jon hadn't pushed him in months, that was true. But those three unnerving and incomprehensible love making sessions, those three times where Malcolm had felt compelled to do anything Jon asked…

There had been something liberating and madly exciting in those fierce and violent encounters, but it always left Malcolm with an uneasy feeling, ashamed and demeaned.

It wasn't love. It was a sojourn into a darker side that Malcolm didn't like and didn't want to continue. It was too easy to carry on, the novelty and exhilarating pleasure too vicious, the power too easily abused. On both their parts. Malcolm would not spare himself by denying that he enjoyed portions of it.

So he ended it. Then and there. Ignoring Jon's pleading, his anger, his demands, his apologies. Ignoring Jon's continued protestations of innocence, ignoring Jon's persuasive and enticing arguments, his calm rationales, his promises.

It had hurt. But Malcolm knew it would. Another failure, another relationship which ended in disaster. He thought he had been able to get close to Jon. He had tried. He had tried so hard, but once again had somehow been proven unworthy. Maybe he failed because he wasn't willing to compromise, too stubborn to relinquish his notions about what love should be. He supposed he had too much pride, another fault that had been pointed out to him time and time again. Or perhaps he was simply a pretentious prat with sentimental delusions, just as his last male lover had said.

He gave a mirthless chuckle, thinking that Trip would have a good laugh—discovering that the eternal pessimist was a quixotic optimist when it came to love.

Yet he had loved Jon. That openness and easy emotional candor, that generosity of spirit, the way Jon made Malcolm feel as if he was the center of Jon's universe, the sheer love that the man poured upon him, unabashed, unafraid. His intelligence and humor. His passion. His cunning. Malcolm enjoyed seeing Jon use his skills to sway and guide people, whether acting as a commanding officer leading his crew into new situations, or as a diplomat steering dissenting factions into consensus.

However when he began to suspect that Jon was using that manipulative skill on him, Malcolm had found it difficult to say anything, loath to believe that Jon would deliberately endanger himself, his crew…him. Malcolm had tried to pass it off as just another character flaw, berating himself for being cynical, just as some of his former girlfriends had accused him of being.

So he had tried harder. Tried to please Jon, tried to perform his duty perfectly and worked at both his job and his relationship. He had forced himself to accept and show affection in public, trying so hard to overcome his reticence and discomfort. He attempted to talk more in private, knowing that several ex-lovers had found his taciturn disposition aggravating. And he had tried to let Jon know what he felt, not used to voicing his feelings, hiding them, an ingrained habit so as not to anger or hurt someone, or to allow them to be used against him.

And because of Jon, Malcolm knew he was a better man, that he had matured. More secure due to Jon's unconditional love, even though Malcolm had impulsively tested it on occasion, consistently surprised when Jon forgave him or even seemed proud of him. He had cautiously opened himself up to Jon, trying to find that balance between his withdrawn yet fiery temperament which had confused so many other lovers. Jon had even encouraged that, taking his missteps in stride, their rows once in a while spectacular, yet always resolved.

But apparently he had failed. Again. As always. His lovers always eventually found out that he wasn't much worth their while after a time. But with Jon, he thought it'd been different. That there was some substantial there, not just sex, not just need or desire. He thought that he had finally connected with someone and he had been happy.

His father always told him that instead of blaming others, he should look to himself for the fault. And every one of his relationships had ended in a bewildering fiasco. But he had truly believed that Jon had loved him despite his flaws.

The worst part was how easily he was replaced. By Marcuson of all people. The man he had angrily suggested that Jon get involved with during that argument in the lounge.

Malcolm's morose soul-searching was interrupted by something new—the door opening, not just the slot that they used to shove the tasteless food and water through. He squinted, eyes tearing at the sudden brightness and rough hands grabbed him and hauled him out of his cell.

***

Trip was nearly besides himself with worry. After four days they still hadn't been able to find Malcolm's biosigns, although they were fairly sure he was being kept somewhere in a massive complex outside of the capital city. However the building material foiled every attempt to penetrate it with sensors.

Despite Starfleet's strongly worded counsel, Jon refused to set foot on the planet again, but continued to negotiate a treaty as ordered. The Kriom found that acceptable and admired Jon's increasingly hard line approach, his attitude just as frigid and aggressive as theirs. This was something they understood and respected, not friendly contacts full of smiles and goodwill gestures.

And every day Jon contacted the Kriom military rep and every day he was told that their Lieutenant would be released as soon as he cooperated. Jon's angry demands to speak to Malcolm or even to just see a visual were refused; with a cold repetition that he was being held incommunicado until he answered a few questions.

Starfleet had told them to sit tight and wait, continue the talks, the situation too delicate to upset the progress they'd made by forcing the issue. The Kriom were a belligerent race, cruel and warlike, and could be a danger to Earth if they perceived any hostile first strike intentions. But they would honor alliances with a fierce devotion, and Trip had the feeling that Earth's government would consider the loss of one armory officer a justifiable expenditure in order to secure the Kriom as allies instead of facing them as enemies.

Jon conducted the negotiations shrewdly, completely refusing repeated requests for information on Earth's, as well as Enterprise's, defensive and offensive capabilities. It was all part of the Kriom's game of assessing potential allies. Their technology wasn't as advanced as Earth's, but their military might was great, their soldiers expendable, their drive unstoppable once committed to a goal. They also had a league of other species that was a large axis of power in this sector, keeping the peace and deterring outside threats.

Although the Kriom would enter an alliance without knowing the extent of their partner's technology, they doggedly tried to get that information. A few of their allies had garnered honor by refusing to buckle under the pressure, maintaining an ice cold composure despite the Kriom's provocations.

It was all totally alien to Trip, convoluted and unfathomable. He just knew that Jon was making headway, Starfleet was pleased, and the Kriom were slowly approaching a binding treaty. And Malcolm's fate was still unknown.

But Trip had seen T'Pol's report of their interrogation methods, a blend of ancient time honored techniques that cut across many cultures and a few completely alien practices. He thought that if the Kriom couldn't get the information they wanted from Jon, then they would try to get it from Malcolm.

***

They bound his wrists behind him, pushing him down the endless corridors, striking him when he didn't anticipate a turn or the proper direction. They shoved him into a room, stark and brightly lit, old stains on the floor and splashed across the walls. He was guided around a wooden post and to the middle of the room, jerked to a stop under a chain with a hook attached. Sliding the hook securely between his bindings, they set the mechanism in motion. His arms were pulled backwards, lifted into an unnatural angle and soon he was stretched tautly, awkwardly leaning forward and standing on his toes, any movement sending sharp stabs of pain through his already overstressed shoulders. They left and after about an hour of trying to maintain his stance, his legs trembling and aching, his arms, shoulders and chest raw, the strain was becoming unbearable.

A man entered and without a word punched Malcolm in the stomach and he pulled his knees up instinctively. His shoulders screamed in protest and he unfurled quickly, back on his toes, legs quivering with the effort.

The man casually hiked Malcolm up until he was dangling high off the ground.

He was questioned for hours, hanging there, an occasional blow to his head or body, the interrogation steady and unrelenting.

When the man hoisted him up higher then dropped him, stopping him with a jerk before his feet could touch the ground, Malcolm finally made a sound as his shoulders dislocated.

***

Jon, still luxuriating in bed, sated and needs relieved, watched Marcuson dress and leave.

Simon was fun. Loud, creative. Willing.

But he wasn't Malcolm.

Jon sighed, shifting gingerly, just a little sore. He still hadn't been able to persuade the Kriom to return Malcolm, but the negotiations were coming to fruition. A few more days at most, but that didn't help his ever increasing anxiety over the fate of his former lover. T'Pol's people still couldn't locate his biosign and Trip had been driving himself ragged, continually modifying the sensors. Hoshi had monitored every broadcast she could find from her quarters, on sick leave due to her leg, and T'Pol had even volunteered her skills to assist Trip, working with the engineer to test and reconfigure the sensors, making some highly unorthodox suggestions which Trip would pursue with a vigor.

Jon poured his anger and frustration into malicious little sessions with Marcuson, the physical blotting out the stress and worry for a short time.

But then he'd be left, alone and agitated, the pressure from Starfleet, the constant fear for Malcolm, the strain of these negotiations all of it pressing down on him, overwhelming.

He missed talking to Malcolm. Malcolm was a good listener and Jon hadn't realized just how much he had come to depend on that quiet attentiveness. He didn't give advice unless asked, and would just be there, either with tender caresses and kisses, or holding Jon comfortingly.

He missed bantering with Malcolm, that sly sense of humor, the random wicked remark that would leave Jon breathless with laughter, those blue-grey eyes smirking at him or the delightful sound of Malcolm laughing helplessly at something Jon had said or done.

Marcuson didn't like Porthos much, Jon could tell. The man tried, but wasn't an animal lover. But Malcolm, as contained and reserved as he was in public, was a puddle of mush when it came to Porthos. Jon had caught him numerous times, holding and petting the dog, whispering words of praise and love. It embarrassed Malcolm, but Jon found it endearing.

And he missed Malcolm's love making. That intense focus, yet sensitive, that concentration on Jon's pleasure, soothing and often times gently playful. Malcolm may have been fairly inarticulate when it came to discussing his feelings, but Jon realized that every move, every touch, every action Malcolm made had been the way his beloved expressed how he felt, his deep emotions.

However, what he missed most of all, the most essential component that was now gone, the one thing that Jon hadn't understood until now, was something that Marcuson couldn't provide.

Malcolm had loved him. Not because he was the captain of Earth's first warp five capable ship, the allure of that power he held. Not in a starry eyed, hero worshipping way, the larger than life space jockey. Not because he was famous, the son of the celebrated man who designed Starfleet's first warp engine. Not for his good looks and engaging manner…

But for Jon. The man who had doubts and fears, who made mistakes and loved his dog. Who told silly jokes and snored when completely exhausted. The man who didn't like spinach but would eat cold pizza for breakfast. Malcolm loved Jon. The man whose feet were cold at night and delighted in slipping under the covers and warming them between his beloved's legs, laughing at his cherished one's mock annoyance. Malcolm had loved the man, not the position, not the veneer of fame, not the wise, capable and charming face he showed everyone else.

Jon realized that throughout all his machinations, his manipulations, his single minded quest for gratification and pleasure, Malcolm had unconditionally loved him, trying to temper Jon's compulsions, supporting Jon's command decisions even against his better judgment, and had been able to separate the man from the public facade. His beloved had even been able to argue, fight, and criticize him freely, unafraid of repercussions, because he had trusted Jon enough not to be petty. And Jon had taken that, and more, without thought, without comprehending what a gift that was.

To be loved by someone who knew his weaknesses and strengths, who knew the man beneath the image. And loved him nonetheless, accepting everything.

Jon cursed himself for a fool. A self centered, short sighted, stupid jaded bastard.

Jon turned off the light and laid in the dark, not sleeping, worry and regret churning, his soul a crucible, the fire of his grief burning away at him.

***

They entered the room and released his bindings, ignoring the thin trickle of blood that ran down his abraded wrists. They removed his damp shirt and popped his shoulders back in place with a lingering and callous ease that spoke of long practice, giving him a sip of water before binding his wrists together again and dragging him to the post. Hazily, Malcolm recognized this from history classes—the garrotting pole.

They were careful not to break his neck, or his larynx. The questions continued until he lost consciousness; then he was brought back around, questioned some more, and slowly strangled again until he passed out. The cycle continued, for how long Malcolm didn't know, no longer having any idea how much time had elapsed.

When they threw him back into his muggy pitch black cell he allowed a few tears of pain and relief fall, unashamed.

***

"I think we're finally onto something, Cap'n," Trip said, his haggard face optimistic for the first time in days.

Jon let his hopes rise.

"T'Pol 'n I think we found a way to 'see through' whatever the hell that complex is made of, get a fix on Malcolm. Then we should be able to beam him up with no problem. Whatever those buildings are constructed with, it won't interfere with a transporter beam."

"How long?"

"Couple hours. Have to tweak several systems, but I've got my people working on it…"

"Good job, Trip. Keep me notified." Jon didn't bother to tell Trip to hurry. He knew that Trip was working as hard and fast as possible.

Jon entered his ready room once more for another round of negotiations.

***

He was stretched up on his toes again, this time hands bound in front of him, but the strain on his back and shoulders was intense, his feet barely touching the floor, legs burning from trying to relieve the burden on his arms. At least they had given him a break by lowering him and removing the weights they had tied around his ankles to increase the stress on his body.

He hadn't spoken. He knew if he said anything, answered just one question, it would be over. The floodgate would open and he wouldn't be able to stop himself, pouring out everything simply to stop the pain. But if he stayed mute, didn't speak, didn't respond, he could hold out. In theory. It was what he had been taught in security training.

His interrogator released the mechanism and Malcolm collapsed in a heap on the floor, spikes of agony in his shoulders and arms, his back and legs. His shoulders had been dislocated twice more, and twice they had fixed them in the same lackadaisical manner, physically manipulating them back into their sockets with a brutal slowness.

The man kicked Malcolm in the ribs in passing and he didn't have the energy to do much but curl up a bit. Malcolm didn't bother to concentrate on what the man was saying to him; he assumed it was more questions.

His questioner left for a few minutes, or hours, Malcolm wasn't sure, but didn't care. As long as they left him alone, he was happy.

He was jerked awake suddenly, groaning as he was dragged upright and his arms pulled upwards again. As molten pins and needles blazed through his limbs he slumped against the chain, feet flat on the ground for a welcomed change.

His interrogator held Malcolm's face, forcing him to look at the device in his hand. Spiked and compact, slick with a gel-like coating, his interrogator explained what it would do, how he would control it, how they had studied human anatomy in the last few days and knew how to prolong the torment without doing any lethal damage for quite a while. He injected something into Malcolm's arm and it stung.

Malcolm didn't think he could have talked even if he had wanted to. His throat was sore, mouth dry, and the fear made him mute as his questioner's explanation sunk into his exhausted mind.

But when the man shoved the small sharp instrument into the right side of Malcolm's back, slapping a covering over the entry wound to stanch the bleeding, then pushing a button on the tiny controller in his hand, Malcolm screamed and started telling him everything he wanted to know, answering every question.

***

"Found him!" Trip exclaimed, his voice naked with excitement and relief. He was leaning over T'Pol's shoulder, studying the sensor readings, not having moved once from his spot since they had started the meticulous search over two hours ago.

Jon rose from his command chair, his movement so quick and eager that Hoshi's replacement jumped slightly. "Can you lock a transporter beam on him?"

"It appears that another person is in the room with him, in close proximity. I doubt that the transporter can accurately beam Mr. Reed up alone —" T'Pol began, but Jon cut her off.

"I don't care if we beam a whole battalion up with him, I just want to get him here as soon as possible," he snapped, heading for the lift. Trip followed him.

"Get an armed security team to meet us down at the transporter room," Jon ordered before the lift doors closed, "And get Phlox down there too."

***

He answered the questions over and over again, his responses never varying, always the same, giving them design specifications and yields, power sources, everything they asked. He felt the thing inside him slice through a rib, the pain bright and searing. He was unable to pass out, whatever they had injected him with preventing him from lapsing into prayed for unconsciousness.

He could feel the object moving, cutting through tissue and bone as it cut across another rib. His questioner would stop its progress every now and then to repeat a question, or giving him a sip of water to wet his parched throat, allowing him to continue spilling out all that he knew.

Fire flared in his belly as his interrogator touched the controller. Malcolm thought he could feel the thing boring through him, and he answered the question about the design of the relay connections again, choking as blood bubbled up his throat. He spit it out, gasping, sagging against the chain, the pain so sharp that he would have gladly taken a phase pistol to his own head to end it.

The man lowered the chain until Malcolm was on his knees, then touched the button once more and Malcolm felt it move quickly, the pain so overwhelming it was almost too much to register. It broke through the skin several centimeters to the left of his navel, tiny hooks allowing it to cling to him, shiny and bloody.

Shivering in shock Malcolm watched it sit there, vibrating slightly in response to his labored breathing. The man unhooked Malcolm from the chain and he dizzily sat back on his heels, the taste of blood in his mouth, pain radiating through his body, his vision slowly spiraling out of focus.

His interrogator plucked it off Malcolm's skin, crouching down and grabbing Malcolm by the hair, tilting his head back. He held the device up in front of Malcolm's dazed stare.

The man said something indistinct to Malcolm's ears as he gazed at the device in his questioner's hand, his vision telescoping down. The interrogator smiled for the first time. He moved to place the device on Malcolm's chest, aiming for Malcolm's heart.

And Malcolm's anger and thirst for vengeance erupted.

The man didn't expect his subject to move. The device was snatched from his hand, his captive's bound ones clumsy but fast. The human thrust his head forward, striking the interrogator's forehead with his own. Stunned, he fell back, with only strands of hair left in his grasp, and then his prisoner was upon him, shoving the device in his ear. He grabbed at the human, but the captive slid out of his grip, leaving his hands slick with that oddly colored blood.

His eyes widened in fear as the captive found the controller, and he frantically grabbed for it, his other hand trying to pry the device out of his ear. His prisoner smiled, a cold and feral look, eyes strangely glassy and dark, the bright red blood seeping from his mouth a sharp contrast to those pointed white teeth.

He felt a strange sensation, as if he were dissolving and his vision spotted out for a moment.

***

Malcolm barely noticed the transporter beam as he pushed the button. His sight faded for a moment and then the room was darker and his torturer was screaming. He increased the speed, watching as the man shrieked louder, hands flying to his head, desperately clawing.

Trip was horrified. Malcolm wore a viciously cheerful smile. His friend made a hoarse sound and Trip realized with shock that Malcolm was laughing, blood frothing from his mouth, adding to what was already staining his bare torso and filthy pants.

The man screamed so loud that everyone but Malcolm clapped their hands to their ears, too stunned to move. The alien suddenly crumbled, leaving no doubt that he was dead, eyes open and staring. Trip saw something emerge from the man's ear and he turned away, suddenly sick to his stomach.

Jon moved faster than anyone else, and caught Malcolm as he collapsed.

***

Trip had never seen Phlox look so drained, so devitalized. The doctor's movements were slow and meticulous as he peeled off the gloves then removed his surgical gown. He washed his hands with a sluggish deliberation, head bowed over the sink.

"Well?" Jon asked, his voice hoarse and strained with impatience.

"The Lieutenant will recover." Phlox tried for his brisk tone of cheerful optimism, but his voice shook.

"Fully?" Jon pressed, his fear making him harsher than he intended.

Phlox dried his hands, and turned toward them. "Yes, fully."

Phlox sank heavily into a nearby chair, as if his legs had suddenly given out. He steadied himself and gave his report.

"I've been a field medic. Working in the midst of battle, seen the wounds inflicted during wartime. It's to be expected during a conflict. But this…"

He shook his head, a slightly disturbed look on his tired face. "Barbaric doesn't describe what they did. Beyond the abrasions from being bound; beyond the blunt trauma contusions and bruises, as well as the tearing of ligaments and tissue from what seems to be multiple dislocations of his shoulders and brachial plexus damage—all most likely from being suspended for prolonged periods of time, then dropped suddenly. Not to mention the inflamation and injury to his neck and throat, apparently from being strangled repeatedly—" Phlox broke off and swallowed, his face now angry, his pale blue eyes seething. "Three ribs were broken, sliced through cleanly. Multiple perforations to his stomach wall and intestines. I had to remove his appendix; it had been lacerated several times. I treated him for the peritonitis. His liver had been sliced in half, but that was elementary to mend. There was damage in his chest from muscles, nerves and tissues being stretched and nearly torn. The timely surgery will prevent any permanent incapacitation due to that, although he'll need some physical therapy. There was a nick to his left lung and internal bleeding as well. One entry and one exit wound. All repairable, all simple procedures, nothing difficult. I attended to the symptoms of shock, dehydration, malnutrition. Again, nothing complex."

Jon's face had slowly paled as Phlox reeled off the litany of injuries and Trip felt the same: cold and weak, numb.

"Savages, Captain. Your world has entered into an alliance with animals who would inflict this kind of trauma on another sentient being without hesitation. There were drugs in his system, which I will need time to identify but there was one which appeared to be a stimulant-like substance. I dare say that he was conscious and lucid during the entire duration of this…torture."

Jon dropped to sit on a bio bed, legs suddenly unable to hold him. Trip couldn't move if he wanted to.

"Preliminary analysis of the corpse shows that the mechanism recovered was most likely used on the Lieutenant. There were traces of blood that, simply considering the color differences, I would safely say was Malcolm's. Cause of death appears to be the passage of said device through the man's brain."

Phlox rose swiftly, like a man who must move at all costs. "The Kriom would have suffered perhaps ten, maybe fifteen seconds. Some of the internal injuries to Malcolm appeared to have been made at least an hour or more prior to the last one, the exit wound.

"He will recover easily though. Physically. I find it difficult to believe that he would not have not talked, considering the amount of…pain he was subjected to and that, Captain, is what may be more difficult for him to recuperate from. It is not my custom nor inclination to pry into the personal lives of my fellow crewmates, and I do know that your relationship with the Lieutenant has recently ended…however he will need some emotional support, someone to talk to, someone to talk to him so he does not internalize whatever feelings he will have. Guilt for one I would think, for divulging classified information. As well as for killing that…man. I will guarantee that he will experience post traumatic shock and he will need someone 'there for him' as you humans would say."

"Can I see him?" Jon asked softly.

"I had to sedated him quite heavily. I haven't been able to clear the stimulant from his system and he nearly woke during surgery. I don't want him moving for the next 72 hours. But you and the Commander may spend a few minutes with him."

Phlox moved to Jon and awkwardly placed a hand on his Captain's shoulder, hiding his cultural distaste at the physical connection. "There was nothing you could have done to prevent this. You followed orders and initiated contact with a species that is very alien to your human conceptions. The Lieutenant did his duty by giving your away team time to escape. He has survived and will be physically whole again."

Phlox removed his hand and nodded to them, indicating that they could enter the ICU.

Trip couldn't see much evidence of Malcolm's ordeal on his friend's face. He was clean, his hair damp from being freshly washed, dark circles under his eyes, but nothing extraordinary. Just like he'd been up for a couple of days, something Trip had seen before. There were a few fading bruises on those exotic cheekbones, but not as bad as when he had first seen Malcolm after being beaten by those Suliban. He looked pretty good in fact.

Except for the monitors, IV drips, and scores of dressings encasing his torso and wrists. There were a couple bruises on his neck, but Trip had seen similar ones before, and he shot a look at Jon, the contusions too eerie, too unnervingly familiar.

Jon was staring at Malcolm, every emotion exposed on his face. Regret, pain, self-loathing.

Jon reached out a hand and stroked through Malcolm's dark damp hair. They stayed for a few minutes, in silence, each lost in their own thoughts until Jon suddenly spoke. He voice was low, soft. Stricken.

"I'm not good for him, Trip. This time, I know…I know for a fact that I didn't do anything. I didn't say or do anything to make the situation degrade, to try to manipulate it to push him, trying to wind him up so he'd reconcile with me to find a release. I didn't say or do anything to fuck up the circumstances out of a sense of revenge for him leaving me, trying to get him hurt as payback. I know I didn't do a goddamn thing to cause this…"

"I know, Jon. I watched you. I was worried…" Trip trailed off. He had been concerned that Jon would do something, either out of a sick belief that he could win Malcolm back or out of vengeance. But Trip knew for a fact that Jon had done nothing to incite this.

Jon looked at him, accepting Trip's implied criticism and mistrust, acknowledging and grateful for his friend's absolution.

"But I can't be there for him as Phlox suggests. I'm not good for him, Trip. I love him, but I'm afraid I might actually cause something worse to happen one day, and I can't live with that. I've been a fool. Blind. Selfish. You don't hurt the people you love," Jon said with a small sad smile.

"I had something good and I threw it away. I don't deserve to get it back. I can't help myself…I just want him when he's…but I can't push him to that point; he doesn't like it and it's not right. And I'm afraid that one day I'll try to test him again and it's too dangerous. For everyone."

He looked at Malcolm again, caressing him one last time. "I know you like him. I think you probably love him." Jon chuckled when Trip made a weak protest. He looked at his best friend.

"You'd be great for each other. A better match. If you could stop fighting long enough." He gave Trip a warm smile. "I want you to be there for him, if you're willing. If it's what you want. Because, God knows, I can't. I shouldn't."

Jon leaned over and kissed Malcolm on the forehead, then kissed his lips one final time. He straightened and Trip was struck by how bereft, but oddly at peace, his best friend looked. "If you want it, don't let him push you away. Don't let him fool you…he's really quite passionate under that spit and polish exterior. The rewards are priceless. Don't screw it up like I did."

Jon walked out without looking back. And Trip sat there for quite a while, until Phlox shooed him out.