Political Causes and Personal Effects

He cracked opened his eyes, vision bleary and lids feeling gritty, vaguely noting that sickly metallic taste in his mouth. That exhausting sense of fighting through thick unyielding cobwebs of spun sugar, a cloying shroud still clinging to him.

It always felt this way whenever he woke in sickbay and he'd woken here enough times that he could sense it with eyes closed. The smells and sounds were the same. Flat on his back, he tried to move and groaned involuntarily, his stomach, chest, shoulders and arms protesting the small action. He felt as if he'd just had a meal of glass fibers with a chaser of warp plasma and he swallowed, throat raw and aching.

"Ah, Lieutenant, I see you're back among the living." Phlox's jovial voice assaulted him and he wished he were back among the dead. He tried to pry his eyes open further but the light was too glaring and he turned his head away, grimacing at the ache it brought to his neck and head. He clamped his eyes shut once more.

"How do you feel?" Again that sunny tone assailed him and for once he answered honestly.

"Like shit." His voice was hardly recognizable. Hoarse and throaty, a mere whisper only.

Phlox chuckled, but it didn't quite hold its usual note of good humor, and he heard the whir of a scanner. "Well, yes, that's to be expected. You're mending well, considering the extent of your injuries this time." Phlox gave a running commentary of his readings and Malcolm let the information wash over him.

When Phlox pressed a hypospray to his neck, Malcolm flinched violently, eyes flying open, panic in them as he tried to rise, to escape.

Phlox gently but firmly held him down. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant. I didn't mean to alarm you. It's just an analgesic combined with a muscle relaxant."

As the pain faded, so did Malcolm. His eyes slid shut, so he didn't see the concerned look on the doctor's face. Phlox made a few notations in his log.

***

This time he woke feeling alert and clear-headed. He lazily opened his eyes and focused on his surroundings. He was surprised to see Trip sitting next to him in a chair, engrossed in a PADD.

"Superman?" he asked.

Trip looked up, startled by the husky murmur. A grin spread across his face. "Catch-22."

"Ah. A classic."

Trip put the PADD aside. "How ya doin'?"

"Fine."

"Malcolm," Trip said, his tone indicating that he didn't believe the armory officer. He met Malcolm's partially opened eyes, seeing traces of pain in them. He had to look away, willing himself not to stare, not to become transfixed by those changeable colors framed by dark lashes. Trip pushed away the thought that if their scans had taken only a few more minutes, he might have never seen those eyes open again.

"I feel like I've been used for a shuttle landing pad," Malcolm conceded, giving him a wan half smile. Trip didn't notice that it didn't reach those mercurial eyes.

It was obvious that Malcolm's throat was still sore, but that low rough timbre was sexy as hell, Trip thought as he grinned wider. It was just so good to see Malcolm awake. Alive. It was the first time Trip had seen his friend move since being taken to sickbay.

Phlox came bustling toward them, a pleasant expression fixed on his face as usual.

"Feeling better, Lieutenant?"

"Yes."

Trip snorted. Malcolm merely closed his eyes and turned his head away.

Phlox scanned him while making his usual indecipherable doctor sounds.

"Well, Lieutenant, you're progressing nicely. Let's try sitting up a bit, shall we? Let the Commander and me help you. We're going to touch you. Let us do the work." Phlox continued to talk to Malcolm, telling him exactly what he was going to do, each time casually mentioning when he was going to touch him and where. He examined the bruises on Malcolm's neck, keeping his touch light. He tested the range of Malcolm's mobility, noting each wince and grimace. Phlox determined a course of physical therapy based on his observations and then pulled up a chair and sat down.

"Starfleet has been very…eager…to receive a debriefing about your interrogation —"

"They want to know what I told them," Malcolm interrupted, his voice calm, his face inscrutable as he studied his hands.

Phlox nodded with an apologetic look. "Yes. They wanted me to give you something to wake you sooner, but the Captain debated the wisdom of their…request." He did not mention the fact that he had blatantly defied Starfleet by slipping a sedative into that last hypospray to give his patient a much-needed reprieve of another eight hours.

Request? Strongly worded order, you mean, Trip thought bitterly. Jon had argued hotly with the Starfleet brass, with Phlox alongside him refusing to rouse his patient prematurely, citing his medical expertise. But Starfleet had been adamant; a matter of security they claimed. Jon countered by surreptitiously telling Hoshi to cut the transmission by breaking it up slowly. As Starfleet tried to reestablish contact, he told her to make it look like a bad link up, that they were unable to receive the signal. Hoshi had gladly complied.

"I'm afraid we can't put it off any longer, Lieutenant," Phlox said softly. Starfleet finally threatened to have a Vulcan ship meet them with a Vulcan officer to perform the questioning, forcing the Captain's hand. Jon didn't want a stranger leading the inquiry. It had been almost three days since they had beamed their armory officer back and Phlox would have preferred giving Malcolm more time, but he obeyed, not wanting an outsider questioning the lieutenant either. He had given Malcolm a slow acting stimulant, drawing the process out for as long as possible.

"It's all right," Malcolm said, eyes still cast downward, fingers plucking mindlessly at the dressing around his left wrist.

Trip laid his hand on Malcolm's to still it, and Malcolm started. Trip snatched his hand back and Phlox gave him a cautioning look. The doctor moved to fill the awkward silence that followed. "Would you like something to eat first, Lieutenant? I would imagine that you must be quite hungry."

The idea of eating made Malcolm slightly ill. The thought of swallowing, his throat still aching, then something wet and slick working its way down to his stomach, moving inside him…

"No, I'm fine."

Trip saw Phlox's expression change slightly and then he nodded, his bedside smile back on his face. "That's all right, Lieutenant. I'll continue with the nutrient drip for now."

Phlox rose to comm the captain as Trip watched Malcolm sit there, propped upright and fussing with the bandages around his wrists.

"Shouldn't play with them, Malcolm," Trip said softly and Malcolm nodded, abruptly moving his hands to his sides.

Trip leaned down, trying to look Malcolm in the eye. "I know you don't like having things around your wrists. And I know it's hard to leave 'em alone, but the faster they heal, the faster they'll be off ya. It's not like you're tied up or anything, okay?"

Malcolm glanced at him. Trip's sotto voce and confidential tone, the empathetic expression on his friend's face, made him think vaguely that perhaps the engineer was referring their one conversation where he had commented that he didn't like bondage. He hadn't thought that Trip would remember, considering that he had mentioned it in passing just after Trip had finished a ribald and humorous tale of one lover who had misplaced the keys to handcuffs. He wondered fleetingly if Jon had told Trip why it bothered him so much, but that led to thoughts he didn't want to dwell on. Instead he nodded and looked down again.

"I assume I was beamed back?" he asked. His hands moved to the drawstring of the generic bottoms he was clad in and he tied it using a half hitch knot. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Trip nod. "How long was I there?" Not that it mattered.

"Almost six days," came the reply. Malcolm didn't notice the tiny catch in Trip's voice.

He distantly thought that he should feel something about that, but he didn't. His hands untied the drawstring and retied it, fingers moving on their own volition, using a different sailor's knot this time.

"Is Hoshi all right?" Malcolm asked. He wanted to berate himself for not thinking of their linguist sooner, but didn't have the energy. He probed at his feelings, but it was like pushing through wet sand, and he gave up, not caring. He watched his fingers tie a slip-knot.

"She's fine. We wouldn't have gotten outta there if it hadn't been for you." He heard something off in Trip's voice and looked up. "We didn't want to leave you behind…"

"My fault. I miscalculated."

Trip huffed in exasperation and grasped his hand, ignoring Malcolm's flinching recoil. "It's not your fault," he said with force, giving Malcolm's hand a little shake. "It's what they do. They might have killed us all if you hadn't—"

Malcolm cut him off, his voice low and listless. "I should have fought harder."

"You were outnumbered; they coulda killed you!" Trip hissed.

"Then it would have saved everyone grief in the long run." He tugged his hand away and ducked his head again, staring at his wrists.

Trip began to protest but Phlox came toward them, interrupting their conversation.

"The captain is on his way. Starfleet wants him to supervise the debriefing." The doctor pulled up another chair and withdrew a PADD from his coat pocket. "I assume you know the process?"

Malcolm nodded again, eyes still lowered. "Covered it in security training. Take the person's vital information, then ease into their statement of events, have them describe with as much detail as possible the injuries inflicted, then find out the extent of information given to the enemy." His voice was calm, detached. His fingers drifted to the wrapping around his wrist again, but he stopped and let his hand drop to the biobed instead.

"No one's gonna blame you for anything you told them, Malcolm," Trip said, his accent strong. "No one could have held out the way those sons o' bitches worked you over…"

Malcolm looked up, his face expressionless but his eyes miserable. "You don't know what I told them, you have no idea what I did, how many innocent people will probably die because of me—"

At that moment Jon entered the room and Malcolm dropped his gaze to his hands once again.

***

Phlox began the debriefing, going through the steps that they all knew had to be taken.

Malcolm told his story with a level voice and distant air, never looking at his crewmates, fingers nervously plucking at the wrappings around his wrists.

Jon could not keep his emotions off his face as Malcolm apathetically recounted his imprisonment, his interrogation. He buried his shame and self loathing as Malcolm indifferently gave explicit details of being bound and choked, willing himself not to squirm in mortification at the horrifying echo of his own actions. He instead channeled that anger toward Starfleet, allowing it to grow as Phlox prodded Malcolm gently, asking for greater detail.

"And how many times were your shoulders dislocated, Lieutenant?"

"Three, I think. At least, I remember them fixing them three times," Malcolm replied in that mild blasé tone, his eyes unfocused as he stared vacantly at the dressings. His fingers tugged at them, finally loosening the one on his right wrist. He played with the end of it. "They used 'La Bandera' method," he said in a soft offhand way. "I'm just glad it wasn't 'the Wheel of Buddha'; 'course I suppose they'd have their own terms for it…"

"'La Bandera'?" Jon asked.

"Type of suspension—means 'flag'. You tie down both wrists behind the prisoner and then suspend him by the hands. It hurts. I tried to keep my arms flexed, but you get tired and as soon as muscular fatigue ensues, your shoulders dislocate. I guess mine didn't fast enough for him the first time, because he helped that along by dropping me. The Wheel of Buddha suspends you from a rod, from your knees as you're hog tied. I hear that's hell on your legs…" He pulled at the bandage around his left wrist this time.

"In retrospect the use of a garrotting pole was interesting," Malcolm continued in that unruffled, clinical manner. "It goes back centuries in Earth's history, during the Inquisition. Odd parallel that, isn't it?" he asked rhetorically. He managed to unfasten the dressing and twisted it fretfully. "I suppose it could have been worse, they could have done a wet 'submarino'—that's where you basically drown the offender repeatedly…usually in some sort of contaminated fluid. That would have been wretched…" He wound and unwound the bandage, his movements becoming agitated and jerky. But his voice remained even and removed, his face inanimate, his eyes hidden by his lowered head.

"And the last method they used was that device?" Phlox asked, eyes never leaving his PADD, making rapid notes.

Malcolm swallowed, wincing a little, his throat hurting more, and dry from talking. "Yeah." He twirled the end of the dressing around his knuckles. "That's when I broke…"

Jon wanted to do nothing more than gather his ex-lover in his arms and take him away from here. But he fought against his inclination, his damnable duty to continue the debriefing sticking in his craw. "I need to know what you told them, Malcolm," he said instead, using his most compassionate tone.

After a long silence Malcolm looked up finally, and Jon's heart twisted in his chest. Malcolm's eyes were glistening with unshed tears, his face pale. The younger man met his eyes for one brief moment and then looked away.

"I told them everything about the planet Strolof's offensive and defensive capabilities. I sold them out. I…I…I couldn't think. It hurt too much. They asked about Earth, Enterprise…..Starfleet's intelligence said t-they were a threat if we couldn't negotiate…and considering how we had to retreat…and they wanted that information so b-b-badly, I was sure they'd use it to attack us…so, I p-passed off Strolof's tech as our own." Malcolm's words tumbled out faster and his formerly detached manner began to crack. Phlox looked up from his PADD in alarm. He saw that Malcolm had loosened the bandages and rose as Malcolm continued to hoarsely stutter on.

"I-I-I gave them everything…even the information on the sh-shield that protects their cities…I'd studied it so much, that I m-m- memorized it…they…they can destroy that whole planet…kill everyone because of me…but I couldn't let them know the ship's capabilities. I-I-I chose 82 people over billions…people who never did anything b-but be friendly to us…You'll have to contact them…warn them…it won't t-take their military experts long to figure out it's Strolof's technology…the energy source is so unique, it'll give that away…they'll target them…I-I…" Malcolm gave a great shuddering inhalation and winced as his ribs protested. He swallowed and coughed, his throat raw, his ribs clamoring in pain again.

Phlox told Malcolm to stop and take a break, asking Trip to give Malcolm a glass of water. Malcolm nodded, eyes darting around the room, trying to avoid looking at anyone. He attempted to compose himself as Phlox asked permission to touch him and re-wrap the dressings on his wrists. Malcolm looked down and noticed that they were unraveled; he hadn't realized what he had been doing and he felt a bit disconcerted, his anxiety growing.

He knew what was coming next. Phlox would ask him the specifics of the session with that device inside him, and Jon would ask for the exact information he had given them so that he could tell the Strolofian government the extent of the damage Malcolm had done.

He didn't notice as Phlox took one arm and re-dressed his wrist, deluged by vivid memories of that last round of interrogation. So when Trip raised the glass of water for him to sip just as Phlox pulled his other wrist forward, Malcolm panicked.

He was back in that brightly lit stain splattered room, hands bound in front of him, tepid water in a glass being held to his lips, his interrogator eager for him to continue talking. He could feel that thing inside of him, idling, waiting to move again…

Malcolm surged off the biobed, eyes wide and wild, his sudden flight knocking the glass from Trip's grasp as he jerked his hands away from Phlox. The IV needle was yanked from his arm, leaving a thin score of blood as Malcolm tried to escape.

Jon was fast. He dropped his PADD and intercepted his frantic ex- lover. Malcolm struggled against him, mute and unseeing, caught in the throes of a graphic memory. Jon held him securely but carefully, and spoke to him in a tender and reassuring tone.

Phlox hastily prepared a hypospray while Trip stood in open mouthed dismay, mentally cursing Starfleet for forcing the debriefing so soon.

Jon held Malcolm in one strong arm, gently cradling him against his chest, and started rubbing behind his beloved's ears, his soft loving tone never changing. He felt Malcolm's resistance abate as he relaxed in his embrace, his ministrations calming him.

Phlox hovered close, hypospray at the ready, but Jon waved him off and continued to speak quietly to Malcolm for long minutes, continued to support him, caress him, feeling Malcolm's heart beating madly, his harsh panting slowing, his body shivering with that fight or flight instinct.

It felt so good to have him in his arms again.

Jon murmured soothing inconsequential things and he felt Malcolm bury his face into his shoulder, leaning his full weight against Jon. After another minute he heard Malcolm take a few more shaky breaths and then Malcolm pushed himself away. Jon steadied him as Phlox came alongside them.

"I…I'm sorry, sir," Malcolm whispered as he studied the floor, his ashen face a portrait of complete misery and distress. "I was…I thought I was…I…"

Phlox gently guided him back to the biobed. "A flashback, Lieutenant. It's to be expected. My fault, really. I should have stopped this as soon as you were becoming agitated."

Phlox eased Malcolm back down on the biobed and kept up a pacifying stream of chatter as he cleaned and covered the fresh injury. He inserted another IV line and then placed a hypospray against his patient's neck.

Malcolm's eyes closed immediately, his body relaxing. Phlox brushed the sweat dampened hair back from his patient's forehead as he took a few readings. The doctor's professional demeanor was intact as he spoke.

"I believe Starfleet has enough information for the time being. I will not allow further debriefing until the Lieutenant has had a chance to recover more fully. And Starfleet can, I believe you humans would say, 'kiss my lily colored buttock' if they press for anything further."

Jon and Trip looked at Phlox, gaping. "'Lily white ass'. Not lily colored…" Trip corrected, still a little overwhelmed.

"Ah. Thank you." Phlox checked the IV one more time and nodded in satisfaction. He turned his pale blue gaze upon his commanding officers.

"Obviously the lieutenant is showing several signs of Acute Stress Disorder. You heard the detachment in his voice, disassociating himself from the events that occurred. Something triggered a flashback—they can be quite intense as you saw. I'm sure he was experiencing a portion of his ordeal, re-living it, just as tangible as the original incident. I'd say that the flashback induced a panic attack, although it is heartening to see that it did not produce a 'freeze' response. That leads me to believe that he will be able to perform his duties again. There is a risk of Post Traumatic Stress developing and I will begin psychotherapy counseling sessions as soon as possible to forestall that. At that time I'll determine if there will be a need for any medications. But I would prefer that he not be left alone when I eventually release him. I think he will attempt to withdraw, not only in keeping with his nature, but it's a common manifestation of PTS. Captain, have you given any further thought to my recommendations?" Phlox fixed Jon with an inquisitive and demanding stare.

Jon tore his gaze from his ex-lover's face and forced back his self- centered desires. "Yes. Trip's going to stick close to him, no matter how surly he gets. And he will," Jon added with a small smile.

Phlox looked rather surprised. "I had assumed, based on your previous relationship…"

Jon met Phlox's eyes steadily. "He chose to end our relationship, Doctor, and I'm going to honor his decision. It's not a good idea for me to be the one." It was one of the most difficult things Jon had ever had to do, but he was determined not to take advantage of the situation. If only you had realized what you had, he excoriated himself. Trip placed a hand on his shoulder, comforting him, and Jon looked at him in appreciation.

He let the public mantle of the captain of the Enterprise settle around him again. "I have to report to Starfleet. And get in touch with Strolof. Keep me posted, doctor." He turned and left sickbay.

***

Phlox and Trip completed the third and final debriefing session several days later. It made Trip uneasy watching Malcolm talk, his voice soft and detached, as if describing events that had happened to someone else. Malcolm had maintained an indifferent, unemotional mien that Trip thought would have impressed even a Vulcan.

"And how did you come into possession of the device, Lieutenant?" Phlox asked, his PADD on his lap, pausing in his note taking to study Malcolm carefully.

Malcolm continued to pull at a thread on the hem of his tee-shirt. He was in civilian clothes, a pair of jeans that were worn and comfortable, his shoes kicked off. He sat huddled against the arm of the couch in the observation lounge, his back straight and legs pulled up, knees bent. Phlox had decided that the change of scenery would make the atmosphere less like a cross examination and more like a casual discussion, the lounge guaranteed to be vacant at this time of night. It seemed to be working; Malcolm was much calmer. But Trip didn't know if it was because Phlox had him on something or if it was Malcolm's own unearthly distance, disconnecting himself from everything.

Malcolm resumed his passive recitation, his voice just as remote as it had been in the last debriefing where he had given them specifics of the information he had disclosed. Jon had attended that one and Malcolm hadn't remarked on the captain's absence tonight. "I watched it break through my skin. It sat there, pieces of skin and tissue on it. Blood. It had hooks, so it clung easily. He took it, grabbed my hair, made me look at it. He said something, but I didn't catch it. I think I was in shock. I remember he smiled. Hadn't seen him smile before. He was going to place it on my chest. The thought of it burrowing through bone and flesh to get to my heart was a bit much, you know?" He coiled and uncoiled the thread around his finger. "They were going to kill me anyway, so I reckoned I'd take someone with me if I could. I was a bit…angry." He looked up, his face and voice bland, eyes disturbingly blank. "I surprised him. Grabbed it, thumped him a good one with my forehead, and shoved the bloody thing in his ear. Nicked the controller and hit the button. I suppose I should feel bad about that, but I don't. The bastard had it coming." Trip lowered his eyes to his PADD, staring at the last entry of notations he had made as Malcolm's mild declaration hung in the air.

"I've wondered if he had a family. Wife, kids," Malcolm said absently, still playing with the thread. The bandages were off, the new skin pink and puckered with a few jagged white lines raised in stark relief. Trip had seen the mark on his friend's back, a roundish entry wound. The one on his stomach was larger, a starburst shape and it had made Trip shudder, thinking what that must have felt like, that thing erupting out of your body. Phlox had told Malcolm that he could remove the scars but Malcolm had declined, deferring it until a later date, saying he really didn't feel like spending any more time than necessary in sickbay.

After Phlox had released him, Malcolm made himself scarce, being seen only when attending his appointments with Phlox for examinations and counseling, physical therapy and debriefing. His shoulders and chest still bothered him, the physical therapy painful, but as Trip assisted Phlox in each session, he was surprised that Malcolm didn't complain. In fact, he didn't say much of anything, even when it was apparent that it hurt.

Whenever Trip was off duty he sought Malcolm out, even going so far as to locate him by his biosigns on occasion to hunt him down. Trip hadn't known that the ship had so many boltholes, and he figured that Malcolm knew them all. He had tried to get his friend into the messhall a couple of times, but Malcolm would demur, stating he wasn't hungry. Trip had finally made it an order and hauled him down there late last night, and Malcolm had eaten a few bites of his meal, then politely excused himself. Startled, Trip followed him out a few moments later and found him in the head, throwing up. So he took a docile Malcolm back to sickbay, where Phlox hadn't seemed at all surprised.

"Do you think he went home after work and kissed his wife, played with his children?" Malcolm continued, his hands preoccupied in their uneasy movement, his head down and his voice dispassionate. "Sat down to dinner and talked about his day? 'How was work, sweetheart?'" he said in a chirpy, cheerful voice. "Lovely, dear," Malcolm mimicked in a deeper tone with a slight Kriom accent, "Beat someone half to death, then strangled an alien. Got a confession from a prisoner by shoving my little helper in his gut and watched him scream. What's for dessert, love?"

Trip looked up and saw that Malcolm wore a small half smile, but it wasn't a pleasant one. He violently yanked at the thread, ripping it off and tearing his shirt in the process. Trip put his PADD aside and went to him as Phlox watched with interest.

He squatted in front of Malcolm, waiting. Malcolm finally looked at him, his eyes large, dilated in the low light of the observation lounge. The dead look in them had been replaced by one of anger, a seething fury.

"I'll tell the Cap'n that we've finished the debriefing, Malcolm; we've covered everything and I don't think Starfleet needs anything else. You're gonna come with me now and eat something easy to keep down, and then you're going to bed. Phlox tells me you haven't been sleeping well, so I'm gonna make sure you get at least six hours, even if I have to stand over you all night to keep ya there. Or do you want the doctor to give ya something?"

"That won't be necessary, Commander," Phlox said serenely. Trip shot him an inquiring look and Phlox inclined his head slightly.

"Come on." Trip held his hand out and Malcolm stared at it for a moment, eyes and face empty once more, that flare of temper gone as if it had never been there. He rose gingerly, gripping Trip's forearm to ease himself up, his still healing ribs complaining.

They walked toward the messhall, meeting no one. The solicitous concern of his crewmates, the well meaning touches and questions, made Malcolm edgy and Trip knew he avoid the more populated routes whenever he could.

"Cap'n still hasn't heard anything back from Strolof," Trip said. Malcolm never asked, but Trip could see that veil of disinterest lift each time he updated Malcolm on the planet.

They had all been told, after Jon reported Malcolm's first debriefing to Starfleet, that the Kriom had been making incursions into Strolof's system for some time, testing the planet and their reactions. It was a traditional Kriom tactic used before demanding negotiations or launching an invasion which left their opponent with the option of either annihilation or conquest. So far they had been thwarted by Strolof's shielding and threat of superior weaponry.

"But Starfleet says that the two planets are 'talking' right now.

Starfleet also said that the Kriom were real impressed with us," he added, disgust involuntarily tinging his words.

When Phlox had finished his examination of the dead Kriom, Jon had the body beamed back to the same coordinates. The Kriom had complimented Jon on his stealth and the choice of his tactical officer.

Trip didn't tell Malcolm that the Kriom had spoken glowingly of him, appreciating the way he had dispatched their man. They had taken Jon's and Malcolm's actions as proof that their treaty with Earth was with a worthy ally.

He kept up a steady stream of innocuous gossip as he watched Malcolm meticulously pick out all the chicken and noodles in his soup and then sip the broth. His friend nibbled on a piece of toast, drank half of his milk and then pushed the rest away.

Trip walked Malcolm to his quarters. He disappeared into the head and Trip sat on the bunk, waiting. When he returned he was clad in a pair of loose fitting pajama bottoms, yawning and rubbing his eyes sleepily. Malcolm passively allowed Trip to help him with his shirt; raising his arms still hurt, but the physical therapy was helping. Ribs tightly wrapped, his firm flat stomach was exposed, the scar off to the left of his navel fresh looking, the slight bruising still visible.

Trip pulled the shirt over Malcolm's head, mussing his hair and Trip looked away, finding his friend wonderfully appealing at the moment.

He turned down the sheet and blanket. Trip grinned and made a sweeping gesture, sketching a little bow. "Your bed, sir. Sorry, don't have a mint to put on your pillow…"

Malcolm gave him a tired lopsided smile. But Trip felt a flutter of delight. It was the first genuine smile he'd seen in days.

"Will you be tucking me in as well, Mr. Tucker?" Malcolm asked. His voice finally held a bit of feeling, a dash of warmth and Trip laughed, relieved and suddenly heartened.

Malcolm crawled carefully into bed, stifling another yawn. "I think Phlox gave me something in that last round of analgesics, the devious bugger…"

Trip grinned, partly in relief; he was certain that was exactly what the doctor had done and couldn't fault him for doing so. This last debriefing had been explicit, requiring Malcolm to recount every grisly detail from that last interrogation session and making him re- live killing his captor.

He pulled the blanket up and made a show of tucking him in, causing Malcolm to smile a little wider, the usual detached look in his eyes thawing. "Maybe it's 'cause you ate something for a change," Trip teased, having no intention of confirming Malcolm's suspicion of Phlox's actions.

Malcolm's smile faded. "I could feel it inside me, Trip. The pain was…awful. And now the thought of eating…" He turned his head away and Trip sat down next to him. "I dream about it. I tried not to tell them anything, but it just hurt so much…I couldn't help it…"

Trip wanted to reach out to him, to comfort him, but didn't. Malcolm's body language almost always radiated a high strung volatility nowadays; besides, he didn't think he could stand to see his friend recoil from his touch as he did from everyone else's. He opened his mouth to say something instead, but Malcolm spoke again, his voice low and weary; lifeless.

"It must kill Jon, having to deal with people like that. He just wants to explore. I think the pressure from Starfleet gets to him. He's changed. He has to compromise and it's…hardened him, the stress makes him…" he trailed off and placed his forearm over his eyes, wincing as his shoulder twinged. "And I couldn't do anything right to help him. I tried. But I failed. Regardless of what everyone thinks, I have a strong instinct for self- preservation…which is why I left Jon. And I'm still here because I betrayed an entire planet. If Strolof won't negotiate with the Kriom, they're dead aren't they? That's what Starfleet's intelligence says. And I gave the Kriom specs on all their weaponry, how to get through their shields; and they'll obliterate them…and when they do, I'm the one responsible for that…"

Trip didn't know what to say. He couldn't reassure his friend of the fate of Strolof, because, for once, he agreed with Malcolm's fatalistic assessment.

***

Trip had to locate him by searching for his biosigns again. His eyebrows rose; he couldn't recall any place in that part of the ship that a person could possibly be.

Trip couldn't find him and the corridor ended. Trip withdrew his scanner and commenced a sweep of the area.

He walked slowly back down the corridor, pointing his scanner in all directions. Phlox had finally pronounced Malcolm physically fit for light duty, but insisted that he continue counseling, feeling that the Lieutenant was still much too withdrawn. Trip had agreed wholeheartedly; weeks had gone by with no information on the negotiations or a response from Strolof on the extent of damage done to their planet's security, and the guilt was gnawing away at Malcolm.

Trip was amused that it was Hoshi of all people who had finally gotten Malcolm to eat. Phlox had said that it was understandable side effect, considering the last method used to interrogate the Lieutenant. Trip really couldn't blame him; it had fallen to Trip to analyze the mechanical workings of the device used on his friend as part of the report to Starfleet and he'd seen the medical account, complete with the visual documentation. Afterwards, Trip couldn't eat for a day. He wondered how Malcolm managed to think about eating at all. However Hoshi, cheerfully and with a vengeance, had coddled Malcolm, coaxed him, nagged him. She was the only other person who could touch him without him reflexively flinching from the contact, the only other one whom he allowed to invade his personal space. If it hadn't been for her relationship with Liz Cutler, Trip would have been worried and, he admitted to himself, jealous.

But then again, Trip had been the first one whom Malcolm had allowed to touch him without instinctively recoiling.

The scanner registered a human biosign. Above him.

He climbed the access ladder, curious, never having really noticed this area before. He pushed up the narrow hatch and was immediately deluged by sound. He let his eyes adjust to the starlight, marveling at the expanse of the starfield directly overhead, the nebula Stellar Cartography was studying filling most of the vista. The clear ceiling was low, the space perhaps five, six meters square, and alien plants covered most of it.

Malcolm lay in the cleared middle, on his back, arms flung straight out. He was staring at the stars, the music reverberating throughout this confined space.

Trip pulled himself up and let the hatch close. He crawled over to Malcolm, the ceiling too low to allow him to walk. Malcolm looked at him and pushed something on the panel near his outstretched hand. The sound level dropped and Trip was relieved.

"Gonna blow your eardrums out that way, Malcolm," he said as he flopped down next to him. He looked up at the nebula, and he stared at it, transfixed.

"Didn't want to disturb Carson's experiment," Malcolm said.

Trip recalled that Carson was a xenobotanist, in hydroponics. That would explain the plants, but…

Malcolm spoke again, as if reading Trip's mind. "Old experiment using alien plant life. Seeing if they respond to music, and if so, which types, and if they respond the same way Earth plants do. Carson's testing depressing songs this week."

Trip tore his eyes away from the nebula and glanced around. The plants all looked healthy and vigorous to him.

"They seem to like it. Last week was execrably cheery pop tunes from the last century. Two plants shriveled up and died. Obviously they had more taste than the fans of that era…"

Trip chuckled, hearing an ember of the old Malcolm in that flat tone, and a brief smile flickered across Malcolm's face.

"I talked to the Cap'n."

"Will he let me back on full duty?" Malcolm asked, a slight note of interest in his voice.

"No. Phlox doesn't recommend it at this time."

Malcolm didn't respond, but Trip hadn't expected him to.

"How'd you find this place? I'm the damn engineer and I didn't know it existed."

"I have a lot of time on my hands."

Trip looked around again. "This is a weird space."

"Design flaw."

Trip looked at him.

"Lowest bidder…"

"Oh."

Trip continued to study his friend. Trip had gotten used to the empty look in Malcolm's eyes, the dark smudges etched beneath them which bespoke of insomnia and disquiet. Gotten used to the withdrawn tone, the numb and detached air that cloaked him, the 'don't come near' aura which emanated from him. He was accustomed to the strained set of his friend's body, constantly tense and rigid with an undercurrent of anger which seemed dangerous, yet tempered by an ineffable vulnerability.

He looked at Malcolm's face which was blank and impassive as he stared upwards. Trip contemplated his profile, that straight nose, the thick lashes, the way a few strands of hair fell gently upon his forehead. He looked at his lips, remembering that night in the bar on Strolof, kissing them. His eyes traveled down the length of his friend, the thin plain tee shirt and snug dark jeans displaying the evidence of long hours in the gym, trying to fill the endless weeks of light duty, the determined effort to recover from his ordeal.

Regardless of the enduring haunted expression on Malcolm's face, Trip thought he looked good. Damned good, but Trip tried to push that thought away.

He was a bit startled when Malcolm turned his head and caught him staring. Malcolm looked at him, really looked at him, not with that now familiar distant gaze and inanimate expression. Trip saw a hint of warmth in his eyes, a slight sardonic smile curling his lip.

"I'm fine, Commander. You don't have to continue wasting your time babysitting me just because Jon asked you to."

But he realized that he was glad Trip was there. Had been, from the beginning. Jon would have pestered him, hounding him to talk about it, wanting to help. Bad enough that he had to talk about everything every day to Phlox, being asked how he felt about the events, coerced into re-living them daily in the name of therapy. It was painful and exhausting, but he understood the necessity of it. He could now accept what had been done to him; the outrage was still there, the memory of the pain still fresh, but it was no longer an all consuming distress. It just was.

It was the guilt of what he had done. His actions. What he had said. The innocents that he had condemned to death or subjugation because he had been afraid that they would harm his friends. And no amount of talking would ever relieve that.

But Trip never asked. Never questioned. Never prodded and pried. Trip was just there, talking about ship's business, or amusing him with stories and tall tales. Treating him like always. Like normal.

Malcolm couldn't say how much he appreciated that.

Trip thought he saw the warmth in Malcolm's eyes grow and blossom.

It caught Trip by surprise, and it flustered him. He blurted out the first thing that popped into his head. "You know I care about you, don'tcha?" Trip cringed inwardly. He added hastily, "We all do, the whole crew. More 'an half of them filed a formal protest over the accord with the Kriom, sayin' that morally we shouldn't be alignin' ourselves with animals like that. T'Pol even filed one. I was afraid we'd have a mutiny on our hands when Jon pushed through that treaty, but he knew the crew was angry at Starfleet, not him." Trip reached out a hand and placed it on Malcolm's shoulder. "No one blames you for anything, Malcolm. You don't have to hide yourself away…"

Malcolm's shoulder relaxed at the touch and he looked back up, sounding slightly exasperated. "I'm not hiding. It's just awkward. As well intentioned as the crew has been, I make them uncomfortable. Travis dragged me to movie night last week. Rostov was behind us. You know how when the film is abysmal people throw out smart comments. Rostov called out, said whoever chose the movie was trying to torture us."

Trip winced and gave his shoulder a light squeeze. Malcolm smiled. "Yeah. You could cut the silence with a knife. He kept apologizing, and he just made it worse. I felt horrible for him…"

Trip removed his hand and let it return to the deck. Malcolm moved his hand close to Trip's and they lounged in a comfortable silence, viewing the sky, listening to the music. Trip finally made another comment.

"This is really depressing."

"Plants seem to like it."

"But the lyrics—'I want something beautiful to die for, because my life's too ugly to live?' That's a little harsh, isn't it?"

"Depends on what terrible things you've done, I suppose."

Trip didn't like the return of that detached tone. "Do you agree with those lyrics, Malcolm?" Trip turned and raised himself up on one elbow, looking at his friend.

Malcolm continued to stare at the starfield.

"I'm worried about you," Trip confessed softly.

"No need."

"I don't want anything to happen to you…" Trip managed to suppress the hitch in his voice.

"Reeds don't commit suicide. We die for king and country; we die in service, doing our duty. And if we fail that, we retire honorably and crawl into a bottle, although sometimes we practice that before retirement. But we don't take the cowardly way out and top ourselves." He smiled ruefully. "So regardless of the appellation of 'Lieutenant Lemming' which some crewmen have hung on me, I have no intention of killing myself."

"Lieutenant Lemming?" Trip repeated with a helpless snicker.

"Jon thought it was amusing too. Said he should promote me, but he thought 'Commander Kamikaze' would have been just as bad…"

Trip laughed and Malcolm looked at him, that small half smile on his face. Trip laughed harder and Malcolm chuckled.

It was the first time Trip had heard Malcolm laugh since Kriom.

Trip's communicator chirped. Still smiling, he withdrew it and answered.

"Do you know where Malcolm is?" Jon asked without preamble.

"He's right here."

There was a pause. "Are you alone?"

Trip exchanged a glance with Malcolm. "Yeah. Just us."

"The Strolofian government has finally contacted me."

"Did they manage to negotiate with Kriom?" Malcolm asked tersely.

Jon hesitated, then "No. Strolof wouldn't compromise. Refused to have any further talks as long as the Kriom continued their martial aggression into their sector as well as several practices which they deemed unacceptable."

It wasn't difficult for Trip to guess what Jon was tactfully trying to avoid saying.

"And how did the Kriom react?" Malcolm asked softly, his voice flat. Trip could see Malcolm preparing himself, his whole body even more tense, but his face totally unreadable. The warmth that had been in his eyes before Jon's call was gone, replaced by that numb look.

Jon's voice dropped lower. "Kriom attacked them, tried to take them by surprise."

"How many were killed?" Malcolm asked dully.

"Several of the Kriom ships were destroyed. They couldn't penetrate the planetary shields and the weapons the Kriom modified didn't have any effect."

"What?" Malcolm asked, his disbelief evident.

Trip looked at Malcolm in surprise, also thinking he heard wrong.

"Strolof's safe, Malcolm. They said that the weapons information you imparted was just the same data that they give freely. They claim it maintains the balance of power in their sector; they give it to anyone who asks. And they continuously rotate the shield frequencies with a randomness that's impossible to predict. They regret not getting back to us sooner; everything you disclosed was of no concern to them and they didn't understand the importance we placed on their reply."

Malcolm exhaled loudly and closed his eyes. After a moment he rolled over onto his stomach and buried his head in his arms.

"Thanks, Cap'n. I'll get back to you," Trip said as he watched Malcolm's shoulders begin to shake.

"You do that, Trip. In the end, you did the right thing, Malcolm. Everything worked out. Kriom prides itself on honoring its treaties and they don't have any of our defensive or weapons information. They won't pose a threat to us and Strolof's secure. Okay?" Jon's voice was soft, laced with a gentleness that told Trip how much the man still cared about his ex-lover.

"It'll be all right, Jon. Tucker out."

Trip replaced his communicator and scooted over to Malcolm. He placed his hand on friend's back and started to rub it. Malcolm was silent, his body shuddering underneath Trip's fingers and the engineer kept up a stream of low murmuring words. He finally lay down next to Malcolm.

"Com'ere." He pulled at his friend, who gave only a token resistance before he yielded. Trip guided Malcolm's head to his chest, and Malcolm turned his face into Trip, still silent except for an occasional swift intake of breath, his fingers convulsively grasping at Trip's uniform. Trip embraced him and continued to rub his back, no longer talking, sharing the pain of his friend's mute outlet of overwhelming relief, the liberation of so many weeks of guilt that had been eating away at him. Trip was thankful that Malcolm's pervasive numb detachment had finally broken, knowing that Phlox would be pleased to hear that his patient had finally found that needed emotional release, especially one that was safe.

So he held Malcolm as the man wept without a sound.