Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For the first time in his life, Malcolm is staring up at the faint outline of Enterprise in the sky and a fleeting sense of apprehension flickers within him. A lifetime ago he would have bounded forward without any hesitation. Anything to get away from Earth, from the bad memories and his sordid past and his family who never quite seemed to accept the path he’d taken in life.

Never once has he felt so unsure about something pertaining to Starfleet.

He isn't exactly sure why he's so nervous. He loves Enterprise; the ship is his home, her crew his family. He's had a thirst for exploration ever since he was little that was never sated by his brief stint in the Navy. So, why is it that when he reaches the escalator that will take him to the shuttle, he pauses? Why is his heart hammering so rapidly in his chest? Why is his head spinning, thoughts tripping over themselves?

Malcolm takes a deep breath and forces himself back into motion. Everything's fine. He’s said his goodbyes to his family. He nearly crushed his sister with a hug, and she him. He stood shell-shocked when his father laid a hand on his shoulder and said with a hint of pride in his otherwise stoic expression, “Make the Reed line proud, Malcolm.”

Funny how good things can emerge from the worst situations.

Panic settles low in his chest, the memories flooding back. Malcolm forces himself to take a deep breath and concentrates on the pleasant events which transpired on his visit: spending Christmas with family for the first time in fifteen years, the blissful winter garden walk that his sister took him on, the painting of the HMS Clement he received from his father as a gift. It’s in his suitcase right now, a new addition to his admittedly bare quarters.

The escalator reaches the top. Malcolm heads towards shuttlebay two, simultaneously digging about his pocket for his ID card, but the porter just sidesteps out of the way with a shy smile. Of course. With his face splashed across every major headline around the world, they only need one look to know who he is.

Security risk, his mind hisses. We’ve encountered shapeshifting aliens before. What if I were a Suliban looking to infiltrate Enterprise? You can’t rely on looks alone!

Damn it, now he’s even more wound up. Breathe, Malcolm. Calm down. Breathe.

He clambers into the shuttlepod, which already contains two other crewmembers. One is Duraid, a man on his security team, and with whom he exchanges a polite nod with as he clambers into his seat. The other is a woman he's never seen before. The stripes at her shoulders are red; her pips indicate her rank is Crewman. Malcolm knows all his security team, and there weren't any new names on the list this year, which means the woman is in Engineering.

Rivers. The name floats through his head, unbidden, and he nearly bites his own tongue from the shock it gives him. His hands clench into fists at his knees and his shoulders hunch inwards.

Rivers. Ensign Rivers. Engineer. Twenty-six years old.

The only one kidnapped by the aliens who didn't make it back.

"Sir?" An unfamiliar voice drags him from the dark cloud of his own head and he blinks back to reality. The woman is in front of him, a worried frown on her face. She sways slightly, the shuttlepod is in motion. When did that happen?

"Yes, Crewman?" he asks in what he hopes is a neutral tone but probably comes out somewhere between a whisper and a choked gasp.

Her eyebrows knit together and Malcolm wishes she would stop scrutinizing him already. Duraid is politely looking away, but he, too, has remnants of concern in his expression. "My name is Crewman Sharma, sir," the woman tells him. "You're Lieutenant Reed?" At his short nod she continues, "Are you all right? You were looking a bit pale, I thought maybe it was motion sickness, that happens a lot, but it started before we even got moving..." She trails off, finally noticing his glare.

"I'm fine, Crewman." Maybe it comes out snappier than he meant it to. Maybe he even sounds harsh, but a sudden tiredness that has nothing to do with his poor sleep the night previous has settled in his bones, and all he wants now is for the subject of himself to be dropped. "We're almost at Enterprise, you should get ready. Is this your first assignment?"

"My first assignment in deep space." Experience close to home, Malcolm interprets. "I'm excited, sir."

There are many responses on Malcolm's tongue. You should be, it's certainly a life-changing experience. You shouldn't be, deep space is a dangerous place. You should watch yourself, can never be too careful. Hope you said goodbye to your family; there's a chance you may not make it home.

He says none of them. "That's nice," he hears himself say, barely above a whisper. Sharma deflates slightly. A beat passes in silence, then another, and when it becomes clear that there's nothing more to be said she returns to her seat, and Malcolm fixes his gaze out the window for the rest of the trip.

When the shuttlepod docks, Duraid sends his boss an unreadable look before heading down to the armoury, Sharma is lead away with the six or so other new crewmembers on board, and Malcolm grabs his bag with the intent on getting to his quarters to unload it before heading to the mess. He doesn't make it that far, however, for no sooner is he out of the shuttlebay than a familiar figure rounds a corner, blond hair already soot-streaked and greasy.

Trip's eyes are bright, his lips pulled into a grin. "Malcolm, hey!" And then two steps later the engineer has his arms around Malcolm, inches from completely crushing him, and Malcolm's pressing his hand to Trip's chest in a feeble attempt to escape. They both know that Malcolm is strong enough to break Trip's hold, but neither of them bring it up.

"Lay off, Trip!" The smile on his face discredits this protest.

They break apart after a few moments, except Trip's still got his hands on Malcolm's shoulders. "It's so good to see you!" Looking better, is the unspoken addition. "I missed you, barely heard a peep from you at all. What'd you do on yer break? You gotta tell me, Mal. I'm gonna assume the radio silence was a bad thing, otherwise."

"It was a good thing," Malcolm reassures his friend. "I spent a lot of time at home, I was with my family for Christmas for the first time in over a decade." That was after the numerous counselling appointments, the sleepless nights, the medications that didn't work, the two weeks he spent holed up in his apartment interacting with no one besides Madeleine and the therapist Starfleet had assigned him. He doesn't mention any of this, though. "What about you? Anything interesting happen over the holidays?"

Pain mingled with love flashes briefly across Trip’s expression. “Jus’ like every other Tucker Christmas.”

“Are you assuming I know what that means?"

“Loud.” Trip’s smile reappears, but it’s noticeably more strained. He motions for them to start walking. “All the little ones runnin’ about waitin’ for Santa to come; the grownups drunk off their asses laughin’ at things that aren’t even funny. Christmas starts at four a.m. on the twenty-fourth and runs all the way through to Boxing Day in the Tucker household. Sometimes we try to coordinate family events, y'know? But it ends up crashin' as everyone does their own thing." Fondness crosses Trip's face now. "The usual.”

“That sounds rather hectic," Malcolm remarks. "I think I much prefer the quiet gatherings of my own family, thank you.”

Trip waves a hand vaguely. “To each their own. Hey, once you’ve settled back in yer quarters, would ya like to check out the new torpedo launchers? I helped supervise the installation, so they looked right to me, but I know you’ve got yer own version of ‘right’ an’ thought you’d wanna take a look.”

Malcolm stops abruptly, lips thinning into a pale line. “Trip,” he starts slowly, “how did you supervise the installation if you were at home with your family?”

Bright red blush creeps up Trip’s neck and his gaze flits away. He coughs. “I, ah, wasn’t home fer the entire time.”

“And you were the one lecturing me about staying off work.” Malcolm shakes his head with a sigh. “Bloody hell, Trip, that kind of work takes weeks.”

“I only saw the end of it,” Trip defends. “’sides, wasn’t like I had much else to do. Usually the first week of January means we all go down to Florida fer…” He trails off, face draining of colour, and suddenly Malcolm understands. Even after three years, the damage the Xindi did is still prominent. He’s been so wound up in his own hurt he completely forgot about Trip’s.

“I’m sorry,” Malcolm whispers.

Trip shakes his head. “Nah, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be pilin’ all this on ya. You don’t need it, not after what you’ve been through.”

Malcolm quashes the irritability that wells up inside him and exchanges it for an attempt at humour. “You know, I think out of all of it, the publicity was the worst part."

It falls flat.

He never was good at that.

Trip's not looking him in the eye, now. "Yeah," the engineer says quietly. "I mean, thinkin' 'bout it, it probably was hard, right? I know yer not one fer attention an' everythin', you like yer privacy, an' when someone comes back from the dead it's kind'f a bit deal, I guess. But-"

"Trip," Malcolm cuts off his nervous ramblings. "It's fine."

Blue eyes stare at him blankly for a moment, before blinking back into focus. "Yeah," Trip says again. The air around them is stuffy, thick with tension, the lighthearted mood from before gone.

Which is when Hoshi turns the corner, stops, and if she notices what's going on (which, with her skill in deciphering languages including body language, she probably does), she doesn't say anything. Instead, her mouth twitches into a smile and in a blur of blue she flings herself at Malcolm with a force stronger than her lithe frame would lead people to believe. Her arms wrap around his neck and her face is buried into his shoulder. For the second time that day, Malcolm is almost knocked off his feet.

“Ah… hi, Hoshi,” he sputters, shooting Trip a not-so-subtle glare as the engineer snickers behind his hand.

“I-I’m sorry.” Hoshi yanks herself away suddenly and steps back. “It’s just… it’s really good to see you, Malcolm. I didn’t get the chance to talk to you before we went on leave. Um, not that I blame you. We were all dealing with, uh, things.”

Guilt washes over Malcolm once more, despite the little voice that reassures him there’s nothing he should be feeling this for. After the rescue, Malcolm spent very little time out of his quarters. The only other places he’d enter were sickbay and the mess hall, and for the latter he never stayed longer than a few minutes. He always ate in his quarters. He worked in his quarters. He got a few visitors from time to time but he never was good company, and if his own attitude didn't dissuade them then Phlox's insistence that he "needed space" probably did.

The only one who couldn’t be dissuaded was Trip.

For a long time, Malcolm clung to Trip. He didn’t know why at first. Not until the memories came flooding back, bit by bit. It was so unlike him to rely on a single person like that. Is unlike him, Malcolm corrects himself. Even now, the attachment to Trip is uncanny. He’ll have to ask Phlox about it. Perhaps the “link” wasn’t completely severed after all.

He wonders if this was what it was like for Trip and T’Pol when their bond was accidentally formed.

“It’s okay, Hoshi,” Malcolm says, pulling himself back to the present. “I’m back, and I’m eager to catch up with you and Travis. Provided I can get my quarters set up and take a shower.”

Trip exaggerates a sniff. “Ya don’t smell that bad, Malcolm.”

“You shut up.”

Trip and Hoshi burst into laughter, and Malcolm joins in a second later. It feels good to laugh – actually, properly laugh. Nothing forced or fake. Perhaps that therapist Madeleine forced him to go to was right.

“We’re still waitin’ on a few more crew,” Trip informs him, “so you’ve got plenty of time ta catch up. I think Ensign Meng wants to talk to you ‘bout somethin’. She told me it wasn’t urgent so don’t feel pressured.”

“Understood.” Malcolm jots that down in his mental calendar. “I’ll head off to my quarters now. I assume you’ll be down in engineering, Commander?”

“Gotta make sure my baby’s ready to go,” the engineer drawls. “But I’m up on the bridge at launch. See ya around, Malcolm. Hoshi.”

“Bye, Trip.”

“See you.”

Turning back to Malcolm, Hoshi gives a broad grin. “I’ll let you have that shower now. Meet me on the observation deck, 1030 hours?”

“I'll see you there, then.”

The two go their separate ways. As soon as Malcolm steps foot into the familiar grey room, he lets his suitcase drop from his hand, leaning hard against the door. Bloody hell, less than half an hour and he’s already socially exhausted? This better not be a regular occurrence. He has a job to do.

Malcolm heads to the bathroom and turns the shower on, but he doesn’t get in right away. He just stands there fully clothed, contemplating the water as if it holds all of life’s secrets. He doesn’t really need a shower - he had one earlier, before he came aboard. He just needed an excuse to buy time. Or maybe there’s some kind of psychological need, rather than a physical one.

Blast, he’s starting to sound like his own shrink!

Before he can waste any more time, Malcolm sheds his civilian clothes and steps under the showerhead. It’s not as warm as the shower at home, nor is it quite as pleasant, but water is water, and it will do. He stands motionless save for his own breathing in the warm spray, letting the drops wash away any remaining traces of Malcolm Reed, traumatized kidnap-and-torture survivor. That broken man isn’t needed anymore.

Not here. Not now.

He is no one as he walks to his suitcase, opens it. He is no one as he pulls out the newly tailored uniform, which is creased only slightly from being folded up. He dons a familiar identity at the same time he tugs the jumpsuit on.

He checks the mirror before he leaves, just in case. There is no sign of the traumatized man who boarded earlier. He’s been replaced by Lieutenant Reed, chief armoury, security, and tactical officer aboard Enterprise.

Satisfied, Malcolm flicks the lights off and steps into the corridor.

Chapter Text

It’s a wonder Trip makes it to the bridge on time considering how many of the crew stop to greet him. Everyone seems to be in good spirits lately and excited to get back on the road. Or in space, would be the more appropriate term. Trip stops by sickbay to see how Phlox is doing. The doctor proudly boasts of a new creature he collected last month – some kind of reptile/mammal hybrid thing with vicious looking fangs.

“She’s completely harmless,” Phlox assured Trip, noticing the hesitation on the engineer’s face. “That is, when she isn’t feeling territorial. Her species is excellent at removing toxins by absorbing them into their own skin and breaking them down into nutrients. Quite remarkable, really.”

Trip took the doctor’s word for it and sped out of sickbay rather quickly.

He reaches the bridge with time to spare. Okay, so maybe the time to spare is twenty seconds. It’s still a feat considering his track record. “Mornin’ Cap’n.”

Archer turns away from the ensign he was talking to and grins broadly at Trip. “Welcome, Commander. We’re just waiting on the all-clear.”

Trip nods, eyes drifting towards the tactical station. His smile fades when he sees an empty chair instead. He glances at the chronometer – it’s well past 1100 hours. Malcolm would usually be here a full ten minutes early to make sure everything was checked over a dozen times.

Following his gaze, Archer frowns. “Have you seen Lieutenant Reed, Trip?”

“Little under an hour ago.” Trip shakes his head. “He said he was gonna take a shower then meet Hoshi on the observation deck for a bit.” He looks over at the linguist, who is, in fact, at her station. She purses her lips.

“We talked for about half an hour before going on with our duties,” says Hoshi. “I think I remember seeing him helping transfer equipment to the armoury.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Uh, I can’t quite remember. Not that long.”

Archer’s frown deepens. “Not that I’m expecting a firefight right away, but I thought Malcolm would prefer to be on the bridge for…” He trails off as the turbolift doors fly open and in stumbles their missing tactical officer.

“Sorry, sir,” he breathes, heading right for his station. His hair is slightly mussed, his uniform more rumpled than when Trip saw him last. All eyes are on him - the ones that meet that grey gaze flit away quickly, however. “Sorry I’m late. I, uh… There was some problems down in the armoury. Nothing serious.”

“Quite alright, Malcolm,” the Captain assures him with a smile. “Glad to have you on the bridge for lift-off.”

Malcolm nods absentmindedly. Sensing something wrong, Trip leans against the tactical station and quips, “The universe is upside down, Lieutenant. I’m here before ya.” When Malcolm’s only response is a weak grunt, Trip’s stomach sinks.

You shouldn’t expect a complete bounce-back, Trip admonishes himself. Malcolm’s probably just nervous as hell. I would be too in his shoes. He wasn’t allowed back on full active duty for our entire trip back to Earth, he’s just worried he won’t live up to the Cap’n’s standards. Malcolm's uncharacteristic outburst months ago comes to mind, along with the minor ones that followed. Being fit to do his duty was one of Malcolm's top concerns, if not the top, placed above the Lieutenant's own wellbeing. The man had a habit of running himself to the ground in an attempt to seek approval and this was no exception.

Trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, Trip leans his elbows against the tactical station and pretends to be focused on some readouts as he whispers, "You'll do fine."

Malcolm doesn't look up, but the corner of his mouth does twitch.

A quick beep from the Captain’s chair seizes Trip’s focus, as well as the focus of everyone else on the bridge. “Jupiter Station to the Starship Enterprise, designation NX-01.”

“This is Captain Archer of Enterprise, Jupiter Station.” Anticipation and excitement resonates clearly in Archer’s voice.

“You are clear for launch.”

The bridge erupts into cheers. Trip swears Malcolm flinches at the sudden rise in volume but the ever-stoic tactical officer schools his features well before Trip can get a good look. On the other side of the room, T'Pol's eyebrow twitches in what Trip now recognises as a display of Vulcan happiness.

“All hands, this is the Captain,” Archer announces into the ship-wide intercom. “We have been given the all-clear and will be launching in just under ten minutes, so if any baggage has not yet arrived please notify the quartermaster immediately.

“I would like to begin with possibly the cheesiest thing I will ever say, however it is nothing less than true: a captain is nothing without their crew, and you are most certainly the best crew any captain in history has ever had the opportunity to work with. We faced an extremely difficult, unusual situation last year, and to see so many of you back again made me realize just how lucky I- how lucky this ship is.

“That being said, I also noticed quite a few new faces scattered here and there. I have no doubt that everyone will help make the new additions to our crew feel welcome and at home on Enterprise. Let’s hope this journey will long and enjoyable and filled with new discoveries. Captain Archer, out.”

Trip gives Archer a thumbs up and Archer smiles in return. “Let’s break out of dock, Travis,” the captain instructs.

“Aye, sir.” Travis is grinning from ear to ear. His hands fly over the helm.

Trip has no shame in admitting he’s missed this. Many sleepless nights were attributed not only to nightmares but to the lack of an engine rumbling in the floor. He’s even missed the bunks, though he’s sure his back will disagree with that in a few days.

Enterprise inches forward at impulse, engines slowly but surely rumbling to life. A command is given through the ground control launch and after much too long Archer is saying, “Ahead, warp two.”

The lurch knocks Trip off balance; he forgot to hang onto anything. Out of the corner of his eye he sees one of the newer crewmen fly forward as well, nearly sprawling out over the command table at the back of the bridge. From the helm Travis reports gleefully, “Everything is functioning normally.”

“Why don’t you get down to engineering and double check that, Trip?” Captain Archer tacks on, turning to the chief engineer.

Giving Malcolm one last glance, Trip nods. Malcolm still hasn’t taken his eyes off his console – though he did smirk when Trip fell over – but Trip is sure his lingering presence will do more harm than good. Malcolm doesn’t like people fussing over him. Especially now. Trip's already put his foot in his mouth once today, rambling after Malcolm's poorly attempted joke, he doesn't need to risk making it worse. “On it, Cap’n.”

Engineering is as busy as ever, crewmen bustling about, hollering at one another from across the room. Ensign Almack is off to the side, scowling at one of the lifts to the upper catwalk. He straightens up as Trip heads towards him. “Sir!”

“Everythin’ alright here, Ensign?”

“Yes, sir.” Almack contemplates his answer for a moment, then shrugs. “Well, this platform’s acting up a bit, but nothing that can’t be fixed, sir.”

Trip claps the ensign on the shoulder. “Keep at it.”

“Will do, sir.”

He goes around to every member of his team to make sure they’re alright. It’s like a ritual he has whenever they leave spacedock – each of these people are his family, and he’s going to treat them as such.

There are two new additions to the engineering crew, one man and one woman. The man acknowledges him in such a stiff, formal way it reminds Trip of Malcolm during the first few weeks of their mission. The woman is a little more casual, though she eyes the Commander with what seems to be intimidation. Trip offers them both reassuring smiles and goes through his usual “welcome to Enterprise” speech.

Since the launch took them through the usual lunchtime, a few crewmen drop in and out here and there for a snack from the mess hall. Trip feels far too energetic to be able to stomach anything. His shaking hands have a different opinion, however, so after a while he leaves Hess in charge of engineering and makes his way to the mess hall.

The place is alive with conversation, loud enough Trip could hear it from down the hall. Excitement practically radiates off every crewmate. Grinning to himself, Trip goes to make his selection, his ears picking up snippets of conversations as he walks by.

“Can’t wait to be-”

“The gym is-”

“Just me or is the ride smooth-”

“Phlox’s new pet-”

“-tain Archer seems more like-”

Once Trip has grabbed his meal – a simple bowl of potato and bacon soup and a soft bun – he turns around and scans the crowded mess for Lieutenant Reed. He doesn’t seem to be there. Trip frowns, wonders if he should be worried or not, then shakes it off. Knowing Malcolm, he’s probably up on the bridge bored out of his mind or caught up in making sure the armoury is spotless. He’ll just be embarrassed or irritated if Trip were to voice his concern.

Trip does catch sight of Travis, though, so, heads for the helmsman’s table. “Is this seat taken?”

Travis looks up from his PADD and grins broadly. “Commander Tucker. No, please.”

“Thanks.” Trip sets down his tray and dips a piece of bun into his soup. “So, excited to be back?”

“Is that a trick question?” The helmsman gives him an expression of disbelief, then laughs. “I’m over the moon.”

“Sorry to break it to you, but I think we already went over the moon.”

“Oh, har, har.”

The conversation is warm, welcome, and familiar, and Trip falls into it with ease.

Malcolm finally makes an appearance in the mess well after 1500 hours, just as Trip is leaving. Trip has to do a double take. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Good afternoon, Commander,” Malcolm sighs in response.

Yeah, not the best greeting. Trip bites his bottom lip. “Ah, hell, I’m sorry, Malcolm. Jus’ surprised me, seein’ ya all covered in dirt on our first day. How’d that even happen? Didja roll around in the greenhouse or somethin’?”

A hint of a smile plays on the Lieutenant’s lips. “We need better cleaners for the Jeffries tubes,” he remarks.

“Mind tellin’ me what you were doin’ crawling around in there?”

“Extremely secret security work,” Malcolm deadpans. “If you don’t mind, Commander, I’m rather famished, and unless my eyes deceive me, there is one dish of apricot chicken remaining.”

Trip nods and sidesteps out of the way. Then digs a PADD out from his pocket, sparing a glance at the time. He has four minutes until he’s due back, and as much as he longs to sit and talk with his friend, the Chief Engineer showing up after a break late on the first day is not a good look, no matter how casual he keeps things in his division.

“Commander?” Malcolm inquires, breaking him out of his thoughts. “Everything okay?”

Trip unclenches his teeth, unaware he even did so in the first place. “Ah, yeah. Sorry, I’d keep ya company for lunch, but I gotta get back down.”

“I understand.” Malcolm offers him a smile, genuine despite the weariness in his eyes. “I’ll see you at dinner, then?”

“Sounds good.”

Things are dreary back down in engineering. The warp engine's running smoothly, which is an excellent thing for the ship but terrible for Trip's penchant for getting easily bored. He tells himself to get a grip - this is day one of the mission, he's survived worse, he can handle a little boredom. He checks the engine readouts again; all normal. Wanders over to Hess, who is pouring over some warp theory textbook that looks like it could be used as a weight, and she's so enamoured by it she doesn't notice him. He checks on the broken lift which now has a small gathering of puzzled engineers around it. Whatever is wrong with it, they can't seem to figure out.

He finds Malcolm at 2000 hours and practically drags the Lieutenant to the mess hall kicking and screaming. While engineering is running smoothly, Malcolm has his team turning the entire armoury inside out for... actually, Trip doesn't know why. Just that it's a Malcolm Thing, and means he's either in need of a distraction or just as bored as Trip is.

Probably both.

Chapter Text

Trip leans against the tactical station (despite Malcolm’s muttered complaints that he might accidentially hit a button or switch which Trip knows isn't true, there's a reason these things have failsafes) and stares through the viewscreen at the massive class nine gas giant in front of them. It's a rich red colour, some sections flashing bright at random like lightning. “Would ya mind tellin’ me how the hell we missed this thing last time?”

T’Pol looks down at her console. “The planet produces very strong electromagnetic storms,” she explains, “at very specific intervals in its orbit. It is safe to assume that we ‘missed’ this planet during a time the storms were calmer, therefore they did not show up on scanners. Or you did not previously deem this an interesting find.”

Trip admits he still doesn’t find it interesting, but a small bit of curiosity does flicker into existence at the same time. In contrast to the drive-you-up-the-walls-boring two weeks they’ve had, even this gas giant could qualify as ‘interesting’.

“Captain,” T’Pol speaks up again, “if it is all right with you, I would like to lead a science team in a shuttlepod to get more detailed scans of the storms.”

Archer’s gaze moves from the viewscreen to his science officer, eyes widening a fraction. “Are you sure that’s safe?”

“As long as we maintain distance, there should be little to no risk.”

The Captain hesitates, purses his lips. After a few moments he nods. “Get Ensign Keeley, I hear she’s been brushing up on her planetary science.”

T’Pol nods in agreement and gets to her feet.

“I’d like to object on this course of action, Captain,” says a voice Trip hasn’t heard speak up in days.

All eyes flick over to the tactical station, and the small, dark-haired man sitting behind it. “It… just seems unnecessary,” Malcolm continues slowly. “Is there any reason why we can’t scan it from here?”

“The closer we can get to the planet, the more detailed scans we can achieve,” T’Pol responds. “But I acknowledge your concern. You have my assurance that I will proceed with the utmost of caution.”

Malcolm chews the inside of his cheek. “I just can’t help remembering a particularly close call the last time we discovered a class nine gas giant.”

“Ah, don’t worry, Malcolm.” Archer says, clapping the lieutenant on the shoulder over the console. “No one’s going inside the thing this time. And I’m sure your scans can verify, there’s no one stuck in there needing our help.”

It’s meant to be a joke, of course, which is why it puzzles Trip when Malcolm bows his head to examine the readouts. “No, there doesn’t seem to be anyone,” he admits softly. He lifts his gaze back up. “Permission to be on board the shuttle, sir.”

Archer raises an eyebrow. “Denied, Lieutenant.”

“Sir-”

“There is no reason for you to be on board, Malcolm. T’Pol has this all well in hand.”

“Indeed,” the science officer agrees. “I understand your intent, but your presence on the shuttle would be illogical.”

The tips of Malcolm’s ears go red, and he averts his eyes once again. Embarrassment is not an emotion Trip often sees on his face. It feels wrong, somehow. In an attempt to help, Trip says, “I feel ya, Malcolm. I’m bored too. Got nothin’ ta do except sit around all day.”

“Speak for yourself,” Hoshi calls from across the bridge. “I’ve spent all week trying to update the Universal Translator, after that fiasco with the Kerabi’i on our way back to Earth last year.”

“And I thought you were making sure our engine doesn’t blow up, Trip,” Archer teases.

Trip shrugs. “Well… that, too.”

“Am I free to head to the launch bay, Captain?” T’Pol cuts in, clearly unamused by the human drivel around her.

“Ah, yes, T’Pol.”

The turbolift doors slide shut, Malcolm staring after them in an almost longing manner. Trip’s about to comment on this, but Archer beats him to the punch.

“Malcolm, when’s the last time you actually stood up from that chair?”

“Sir?”

“Take a break, Lieutenant," Archer clarifies, tone bordering on exasperation. "That’s an order.”

He looks like he’s about to argue, then decides against it, slowly hauling himself to his feet. “Yes, sir.”

“I’ll come with ya.” Trip exchanges a knowing glance with the captain before jogging after Malcolm. Together, they leave the bridge.

Malcolm raises his eyebrows. “Aren’t you due back in engineering soon?”

“Not for another hour,” Trip says with a dismissive wave. “Anyway, I haven’t seen you in a while. I wanted to catch up, maybe share a drink if yer up for it.”

“I’ve, uhm, been busy.”

"With what, rearranging the armoury for aesthetic reasons?" Because, apparently, that's what it boiled down to in the end. Malcolm wanted to make the armoury more "efficient" and tossed the place upside down to do it. He reports efficiency up by a staggering 2% - Trip can't see the logic behind it at all. "We've been wanderin' through dead space for two weeks, I know yer just itchin' for somethin' to do."

"And what, pray tell, should I do?" Malcolm stops, turns around, throwing his hands up before letting them flop back to his sides. "As you've pointed out, all's been quiet. Aside from the few games we've got and movie nights, this ship rather lacks on the entertainment side of things. You're right, I need something to do, to keep my mind from... wandering." He says the last word softly, the ones preceding it coming out in a rush like he hadn't meant to say them in the first place.

Trip knows all too well what Malcolm means, though. He eyes his friend carefully, taking in the bags under his eyes, likely he hasn't slept properly in days. Nightmares, Trip knows those too. He's thinner as well, in his face and also in his frame, his uniform just a little too baggy on him. "Listen," Trip says, "Honestly, I was kinda thinkin' about headin' to the gym, Travis tells me they have some new equipment, and Christmas meals tend to hit me harder in the gut. Wanna join me?"

Malcolm rocks on his heels. After a moment’s hesitation, he finally nods. "Might as well, Sir."

"Awesome." Trip jerks his head in the direction of the corridor branching left. "Meet ya there? I just gotta grab my gear from my quarters."

“Yes, Sir.”

“Malcolm.” Taking a step forward, Trip grabs his friend’s shoulders and forces their eyes to meet. “It’s Trip, remember?”

“Trip.” A smile of his own appears on Malcolm’s lips. “I’ll meet you there, Trip.”

When Trip palms the door panel and stumbles into the gymnasium, a cloth bag slung over his shoulder, he isn’t all that surprised to see Malcolm already standing next to one of the new bench presses. “Sorry,” Trip jumps to apologize, “I got caught up by one of my staff. It's her first time in deep space, apparently, and you know how that can go."

Malcolm purses his lips and looks oddly tense. The reaction is odd, but he shakes himself out of it before Trip can try to decipher it. “It’s alright, Comma- Trip.” The Lieutenant turns back to the bench press and kicks it gently. “I thought you said these were new.”

“They are new.”

“They don’t look it.”

“What are you, some kind of gym equipment inspector?” Trip shakes his head playfully at Malcolm’s smirk and drops his gym bag onto a nearby chair. Save for the two of them, the room is deserted. Memories flash through Trip’s mind – memories of trying to build his body muscle back up while Malcolm lamented about his own memorial service. Irrationally, Trip suddenly longs for someone else to walk in, prove that Malcolm really is standing in front of him right now.

He shakes the thought from mind. “Malcolm,” he calls, “I’m gonna hop on a treadmill. Up for a challenge?”

Malcolm turns around, revealing his half-wrapped hands. “Actually, I was planning on brushing up some of my technique.” He gestures to the punching bags. “I’ve got my first evaluations tomorrow and I’m afraid I’ve been rather slacking lately.”

“Slacking? Isn’t that unbecomin' of an officer?” Trip tries to joke, but seeing Malcolm’s forced smile, moves on quickly. “Ah, don’t worry, Mal. You could punch the daylights outta someone in yer sleep.”

Malcolm mutters something Trip can't hear. Probably a denial, typical of the lieutenant.

Turning back to the treadmill, Trip begins at a low setting and steps onto the platform. He turns it up higher and higher until finding a setting he can work with without immediately getting tired. Behind him, a rapid series of punches tell him Malcolm’s started his own workout.

It isn't exactly what he had in mind. With the way their respective equipment is turned they can’t even see each other, much less discuss anything. Sure, he dragged Malcolm down here to hopefully ease his minds off his various concerns, but Trip also wanted to catch up with his friend in an environment he would be comfortable in – and not work related.

Trip flicks the machine to an uphill setting.

He can recall vividly and painfully the way Malcolm withdrew from the world during the two months it took to return to Earth. Sickbay visits were limited to start, and once the Lieutenant returned to his quarters, they became a whole lot rarer. Malcolm’s meals were delivered by chef or one of the galley staff, or as time went on, by Trip himself. The only time Malcolm really emerged from his quarters were for mandatory sickbay appointments. Trip did manage to coax him for various occasions, but they were few and far in between, and never lasted long.

All Malcolm wanted to do was work. Whenever Trip dropped by, Malcolm had a PADD clutched in his hand and his focused was narrowed to whatever information it contained. The distraction was beneficial for a time but soon became unhealthy, especially so when he began searching for information on the unknown aliens. Trip, Phlox, and every other member of the senior staff knew this would soon morph into an obsession and put a stop to it.

That was a couple of weeks before they made it to Earth. No one has so much as mentioned the aliens since, but Trip wouldn’t put it past Malcolm to have made a few more final searches before putting a lid on it.

If he ever stopped at all.

Trip’s train of thought is interrupted, seemingly randomly at first, but something seems off. Trip frowns and slows the treadmill down to a reasonable speed so that he can look behind him.

It soon becomes clear what brought him back to the real world. Silence.

Malcolm is no longer beating the crap out of the punching bag. He’s fallen to his knees in front of the bag as it still swings dangerously close to his head. Even from across the room Trip can hear the pained wheezing coming from the other man's mouth, like the air is just too thick, like he can't get enough of it.

Trip leaps off the treadmill without even bothering to turn it off. “Malcolm!” he shouts, hurrying up to his friend’s side. “Malcolm, what’s going on? What’s wrong?”

“Sorry,” Malcolm wheezes through clenched teeth. His fists are clenched around the fabric of his shirt, an action which fills Trip with dread.

“C’mon,” the Commander decides. He hauls Malcolm to his feet, slinging one arm around his shoulder. “We’re goin’ to sickbay.”

Malcolm doesn’t even protest.

Chapter Text

“What did I tell you about pushing yourself too hard, Lieutenant?”

Malcolm sits with his feet dangling over the edge of the bio-bed, absentmindedly fumbling at the sheets beneath his fingertips, as Phlox runs a scanner over his body. “I didn’t think it’d be an issue,” he lies through his teeth.

Phlox lowers the scanner and clicks his tongue. “Well, fortunately I don’t detect any lasting damage. I must implore you to be more careful, Lieutenant. Your body is still healing whether you feel it or not.” He drops the scanner on a tray of medical supplies, and Hamaya comes to wheel it away.

The Ensign exchanges a knowing glance with Malcolm. Though he’s a long way from calling themselves friends, they are on friendly terms, their shared ordeal allowing Malcolm to be more open in the Ensign’s presence. It does, however, appear that Malcolm was the only one to experience a “ghostly” existence attached to another member of the crew.

“I have yet to find a definite explanation,” the doctor explained one day. “Perhaps it is something to do with your closeness to Commander Tucker over anyone else on the ship. It could be due to your proximity to him in your... final moments. The aliens had advanced technology we were unable to even get a glimpse at. There are a great many possibilities, Lieutenant, and it's unlikely you'll ever find a satisfactory one without proper research."

Despite this, Malcolm had tried "proper research". Even when he got locked out of certain ships logs and his access to PADDs was limited, he scrounged up what little evidence he had and tried to piece it together - with little success. Much to his chagrin, it seemed Phlox was right. But Malcolm desired answers.

He still does.

He wonders if Trip thinks about it sometimes, he was the one being "haunted", after all.

“…experiencing anxiety? Lieutenant.”

“Hm?” Malcolm snaps out of his jumble of thoughts, coming face to face with a rather concerned looking Phlox. “Please excuse me, Doctor. Lost in my own thoughts.”

That eerily wide smile spreads across the Denobulan’s lips. “Quite alright. I was asking if you’ve experienced any anxiety since coming aboard.”

“Um…” He ponders on the incident on the bridge earlier. Maybe he overreacted a little, but then, wasn’t it in his nature to be slightly paranoid? “Not really, no.”

“Have you been sleeping well? Eating?”

“I like to think so.”

Phlox taps at his PADD a few more times before he sets it on a nearby desk. “Well, Mr. Reed, aside from a touch of fatigue and stress in your muscles, I don’t see any reason not to let you get back to your duties.”

Malcolm lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Some part of him half expected Phlox to pull him from work, run test after test, and god only knew that being idle was just about the worst thing he could be doing right now. “Thanks, Doctor.”

The Denobulan’s bright eyes twinkle. “Anytime, Lieutenant. Now, Ensign Hamaya, would you be so kind as to…”

The conversation fades as Malcolm walks through the sickbay doors.

He almost runs right smack into Commander Tucker, who, contrary to what he promised earlier, is hovering in the hallway with a hand over his mouth. Seeing Malcolm, the hand drops, and his expression shifts into a mixture of joy and relief. “Malcolm!”

“Trip,” Malcolm acknowledges unsurely. “I thought you said you were going down to engineering.”

Trip’s smile falters. “Uh… I’m sorry, Malcolm. I meant to, I jus’-” he exhales harshly “-I was worried ‘bout you. An’ I couldn’t leave until I knew you were going to be alright.”

Malcolm is touched by his friend’s concern, but then the embarrassment creeps up on him. “I’m a grown man, Commander,” he says, a little stiffer than intended. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

His words only make Trip’s face fall further. “Ah… crap, I’m sorry, Malcolm. I didn’t mean to imply-”

“No, I’m sorry.” Malcolm folds his arms across his chest, tongue flicking across his lips. “I understand. But really, Trip, I’m not going to drop dead at a moment’s notice.”

Pain flashes across the Commander’s face and Malcolm immediately berates himself for the comment. There was a time, months ago, where he did drop dead, right there in Trip’s arms. Stop digging yourself a bigger hole, you blithering idiot. Uncrossing his arms, Malcolm forces a smile. “Come on, then. I wager the shuttlepod should be back soon.”

“Already on its way,” Trip confirms as they start down the hallway.

Since he returned, Malcolm’s found himself more often than not receiving attention where he would have been ignored just a year ago. The crewmen who pass him in the hall offer a smile, maybe a wave, and some even stop him for a chat, whether it’s about work or simply to inquire on his day. He felt awkward about it at first, but soon warmed up to the various Ensigns and Crewmen who took time out of their day to acknowledge him.

Ensign Meng, his second in command, catches him in the turbolift, a PADD in her hand. Ideas on how to increase the torpedo yield. He accepts, and Commander Tucker even offers a few engineers to help.

“Welcome back, gentlemen,” the Captain greets with a smile as the doors slide open. His eyes linger on Malcolm for just a moment too long and Malcolm squirms under the attention. “You’re just in time. T’Pol and the science crew are on their way back now. Apparently, the shuttle took a bit of a beating while they were down there. Get an engineering team together, Trip, and head down to launch bay two.”

“Aye, Cap’n.” The Commander seems all too eager to work on a busted shuttle. With a smile, Malcolm suspects he’s not the only one who’s found the last week and a half uneventful.

Archer’s eyes are on him as he makes his way across the bridge to his station and relieves the crewman there. Once settled, the Captain asks the dreaded question: “Everything alright, Malcolm?”

“Fine, sir.” Malcolm frowns and reaches over to adjust his seat – curse his lower-than-average height – and gives Archer a reassuring nod. “Had a bit of pent-up energy to release.”

“Shuttlepod Two to Enterprise.” T’Pol’s voice floats around the bridge. Malcolm is grateful for the interruption.

Archer presses the comm. “Go ahead.”

“We are ready to dock, Captain.”

“Understood. Repair teams are standing by. Archer out.”

Through the viewscreen, they can see the shuttlepod making its way towards Enterprise, tiny compared to the class nine giant behind them. Even from this distance, various scrapes and dents are visible in the pod’s hull.

Malcolm’s eye is drawn away from the viewscreen when a light on his console suddenly lights up. He frowns, fingers flying over the buttons.

“Malcolm?” Archer inquires.

The Lieutenant glances up, one eyebrow raised. “Sorry, sir. I thought I saw…” He looks back down at the console. “Sensors detected something for a brief instant. Some kind of energy surge. It’s gone now.” He looks across the bridge at the science station for help.

Ensign Meadows shakes his head. “I’m not reading anything, sir. Probably just readings from the planet’s storms.”

“Indeed,” Malcolm mutters under his breath, but he’s not sure if he believes that.

The job is hardly enough for the chief engineer, but Trip takes what he can get. He crouches beneath the helm of shuttlepod two, tongue caught between his teeth, as he tries in vain to untangle the fried EPS lines that control the shuttle’s left thruster. The rest of the pod has been fixed up nicely, the hull scrubbed and polished, the scorched wing tips repaired. All that’s left is these damn lines.

“I’m not gettin’ any closer.” Trip sighs in frustration and slides out from beneath the console. “These things aren’t just fried, they’re completely fused.”

“Would you like me to get some replacem-?”

“Excuse me, sir, but I think I may be able to help.”

Both Trip and Ensign Drake’s head turn to face the high-pitched intrusion to the conversation.

"When did you get here?"

Crewman Sharma curls in slightly while her face remains bravely stoic. "Sorry, sir. I should have made my presence known."

"No, don't worry." Trip waves her off with a friendly smile. "I'm eager to hear what you have in mind. These're startin' to become a real pain in my ass."

The Crewman's lips quirk upwards. “I have experience separating various fused coils and conduits with minimum damage. I’ll need to completely remove them to do so, though. I have my own supplies in my quarters. Permission to go get them?”

“Permission granted, Crewman.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll be right back.”

As she jogs for the door, it slides open, and another figure steps into the shuttlebay. The two nearly collide.

“Hey, Malcolm,” Trip exclaims with a grin. “What’re you doin’ here?”

Malcolm offers a tight nod to Crewman Sharma, who only purses her lips in response, then turns his attention to the Commander. “Oh, um. I have something that I need your opinion on.” He gestures to the PADD in his hand.

Trip wipes his grease-stained hands on his uniform and nods. “What is it?”

“Readings, sir.” Malcolm's shoulders are taut, he's radiating anxious energy, and faint alarm bells go off in Trip’s head. “I caught them as the shuttle was coming back to Enterprise. They came from the proximity of the planet, but possibly not from it itself."

“What d’you want me to do?” Trip holds his hand out, gesturing for Malcolm to hand him the PADD.

“I want to make sure… that the results are natural, and not man-made.”

Trip quirks an eyebrow. “Man-made?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Huh.” Upon first examination, he can definitely see where Malcolm’s concerns originate. The burst of energy sensors detected certainly gives the impression of being from a ship, especially taking the particle density into account. But as he scrolls to the bottom, his eye catches something that neglects this theory, and he holds the PADD back out to Malcolm. “I dunno what exactly caused it,” he explains, “but it wasn’t any kind of ship. You see here-” he jabs a finger at a numerical formula “-that stream is too erratic. Any kind of ship with that reading would be extremely unstable, not to mention liable to blow up if it got anywhere near this planet. Most likely it came from a storm on the other side.”

Malcolm takes the PADD, eyes squinting in concentration as his tongue prods the inside of his cheek. “Right,” he whispers, but he doesn't sound terribly convinced. In fact, Trip swears he picks up a hint of annoyance in the Lieutenant's voice. At what he isn't sure. “I apologize for wasting your time, Commander.”

“Hey, now. None of that.” Before he can make his escape, Trip claps a hand down on Malcolm’s shoulder and pulls him close. “You’ve got a right to be a bit paranoid, yer job bein' what it is. I woulda thought it was from a ship too at first."

Malcolm cracks a smile. Noticeably strained, but Trip decides it’s better not to say anything. “Thanks, sir.”

“Anytime, Malcolm.”

Chapter Text

The next four and a half weeks are marginally more interesting. They discover a relatively new supernova remnant, and spend the better part of a day scanning, watching the slowly expanding shockwave. Trip drags Malcolm to the observation bay late at night to avoid a crowd. He brings two mugs of tea and they sit in silence, gazing at the stunning sight. Malcolm falls asleep on his shoulder, and promptly threatens Trip with his life were he to tell anyone.

Trip tells Jon the next day.

The Lieutenant gets a chance to deploy some of his much-loved weapons when an unfamiliar ship opens fire on them without warning. One garbled transmission and two misunderstandings later, Enterprise makes first contact with the Mettunen.

“What kind of policy,” Malcolm rants over dinner that day, “is ‘shoot first, hope we don’t kill, then ask business’?”

They trail a comet. Some research lets them know that it’s far from a recent discovery, but little time is wasted, and it gives the crew a reprieve.

Trip is settling into a routine by the fourth week. Sometimes it’s as if nothing ever changed, like they’ve been in space all this time. Sometimes he can forget the horrors which transpired less than a year ago.

But there are, of course, the little reminders. Like the way Malcolm will occasionally bring a hand to his chest, or how his visits to sickbay are more frequent than before. Hamaya jumps at his own shadow, he avoids the entire corridor that holds the wall that failed back then. Trip walks into engineering and sees a head of dark blond hair and half expects to be met with Ensign Rivers, but its Crewman Todd who turns around and Trip feels a hit of loss all over again. Todd and Sharma are fine engineers, already proving themselves particularly skillful in certain areas, but they’ll never replace the hole Rivers left behind.

Trip still awakens from nightmares, though they are less intense, and becoming less persistent as time goes on. A particularly bad one leaves him unable to get to sleep, so, in resignation, he throws himself out of bed and shuffles for the mess hall.

Someone is already there. They sit on one of the far tables, back to him, a hot drink clutched in their hands. Trip can barely even see their outline in the dim light.

“Milk,” he tells the drink machine. “Warm.”

The figure turns around; wide grey eyes blink, flicker, then home in on him. “Trip.”

“Malcolm.” He grabs his drink and goes to sit next to his friend. “Can’t sleep either?”

Malcolm shakes his head.

“Nightmares?” Trip guesses.

Another shake. “Just couldn’t sleep,” Malcolm sighs.

Trip looks across the table at him. In the low light, Malcolm seems even paler than normal, his cheekbones more pronounced, his eyes darker and larger. Unconsciously, Trip finds himself searching his face for any scars, though he knows there won’t be any. The ones on his face were minor, the more severe ones carefully covered by layers of clothing.

“How’ve you been?” he asks.

Malcolm stares into his mug, which Trip notices is nearly empty. “Fine.”

“Is that Malcolm fine or actual fine?”

A grin makes its way across his lips. “Actual fine. It's been nice actually getting do something finally.”

"Tell me about it." Trip takes a sip of his milk.

“What about you, how have you been doing?” Malcolm asks after a moment’s pause.

“Oh, y'know.” Trip shrugs. “Fine.”

Their chuckles mingle in the deserted mess hall before fading into sighs.

“But really,” Trip continues, “how’re you, Malcolm? Bein’ back on the ship, back on duty, after…” He waves a hand vaguely.

Malcolm’s expression turns solemn, his lips twisting into a thin frown. “My answer remains the same, Commander,” he says tersely.

Trip runs a hand through his dirty blond hair. Not that he expected a heartfelt, open answer, but perhaps a part of him hoped Malcolm would be a little less guarded, at least around him. He can understand, though. Just like him, Malcolm only wants things to get back to normal.

Maybe Trip's just been smothering him this whole time.

“T’Pol says we’re coming up on a white dwarf system,” he says by way of changing the subject. “We’re still too far away to know for sure, but she says there’s a remote possibility of finding life on one of the inner planets.”

Malcolm’s eyes widen. “In a white dwarf system?”

“Apparently.” Trip smirks and adds, “she had yer exact expression when she was tellin’ the Cap’n this. Of course, it was a little more… Vulcan.”

“I’m not surprised,” Malcolm chuckles. “Life in a white dwarf system – I may not be an expert in planetary science, but there has to be some extremely niche evolution for that to happen, not to mention all sorts of issues clashing with the very notion. The planet is likely to be tidally locked, for one thing.”

“I didn't know you were an expert on astronomy. Ensign Keeley better watch out."

Malcolm glances away, looking slightly embarrassed. "It turns out I retained a lot of what I learned during my space-obsessed phase when I was a lad."

"Didn't we all have one of those phases?" Trip teases good-naturedly. He goes to say something else, but a yawn interrupts him before he can get the first word out. "Damn, maybe I'm more tired than I thought. I’m gonna try and catch a few more hours of sleep before shift change. Maybe you should too, Lieutenant, if you wanna be at yer best."

Malcolm smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I doubt I’ll have any luck getting back to sleep, unfortunately. Good night, Trip.”

“G’night.”

Trip is reluctant to leave Malcolm alone in the darkness of the mess hall, even more so when an unfamiliar expression flashes in Malcolm's eyes when the Lieutenant thinks he isn't looking. He almost turns back, maybe to ask or plead or order Malcolm to sleep, but decides against it. Trip's done enough mother-henning he can nearly rival Phlox. He attempts to push his worries from his mind and sets course for his quarters.

Two hours of sleep is better than nothing, Trip tells himself the next day, as he struggles to keep up with what T’Pol is saying in their mission debrief. Something about old ruins and radiation and bio-signs. He rubs a hand over his eyes and yawns, earning a smirk from Jon.

In an effort to keep himself focused, he takes to tapping his feet against the floor and his nails against the table at a set rhythm.

It lasts for about a minute until T’Pol suddenly snaps her mouth shut, turns towards him, and says, “Commander, may I ask that you cease your… fidgeting?”

The eyes of all those present turn towards him. Trip’s face burns red. “Ah, sorry T’Pol.” He folds his hands in his lap. “Carry on.”

T’Pol offers a curt nod. “Thank you. As I was saying, Captain, there appears to be the remnants of an ancient civilization on the fourth planet in the system. I cannot calculate exactly how old yet, but it’s somewhere between two thousand and five thousand years old. I expect, given your curious nature, you will want to examine these ruins.”

Archer grins. “You’re way ahead of us, T’Pol.”

“Indeed. However, there is a rather large issue.” The science officer leans over the table and pulls up a colourful scan of the planet – Trip can’t make heads or tails of it. “The planet’s gravitational forces are erratic and in a constant state of flux. Given the density of Enterprise, it would be unwise of us to get too close.”

“Can we take scans at a safe distance?” Hoshi asks.

“Not detailed ones.”

A lightbulb clicks on above Trip’s head – metaphorically speaking. “What about the shuttlepod?” He waits until the attention is on him before he continues. “Shuttlepod Two still has that enhanced shielding from T’Pol’s little adventure around the gas giant. Cap’n, I’m sure with some polarity adjustments we’d be able to get a pod close enough to that planet to run scans. Perhaps even land on the planet; the atmosphere is breathable in specific areas.” He knows he sounds almost irritatingly hopeful; the thought of spending more time cooped up in a tiny shuttlepod for a day, even with ancient ruins to examine, just isn't doing it for him.

Archer is beaming along with him. “T’Pol?”

The Vulcan clasps her hands loosely behind her back. “It is feasible. Since the pod is smaller it is less likely to get caught in too many gravitational fluctuations and thus torn apart. I should point out that the scanners on Shuttlepod Two are far less sophisticated than those on Enterprise.”

“Nothin’ a little engineer’s touch can’t do about,” Trip quips. “Because of the smaller system, it might take a bit longer to compute the data, but that ain’t nothin’ to worry about.”

“Then it’s settled.” Archer grins around at his team. “We’ll be within range of the white dwarf system in a couple of hours. I assume you’ll want to be on the shuttlepod, Trip?”

“You know me too well, Cap’n,” Trip replies. “I could use a hand, though. Flyin’ a pod and keepin’ an eye on the system’s can be tricky for just one man.” He shoots a sideways glance at Malcolm, who comically, lazily, looks behind him before snapping back to attention in realisation.

"Me?" he stammers. "Wouldn't it be better with one of the crewmen in the science division, someone who can make sense of the readings?"

"The shuttlepod's scanning system won't have much output power with the way I'm planning to boost the input," Trip explains. "We don't need someone who can make sense of the readin's. Just someone who can keep the tech goin' and keep the engines runnin'. So, me, but I could use some company."

Malcolm rolls his eyes.

"Sounds like we've got that sorted," Archer says. "Now, T'Pol was also telling me about a Minshara-class planet in a neighbouring system that is home to some rather interesting species of fauna and flora that the botany team would like to take a look at." He eyes Trip and Malcolm. "If we could knock off two things in one, that'd be great, but it would mean leaving you two alone in that pod for just over a day." Everyone knows what he's getting at. The feel of the room is a strange mix of humour and concern and tension - which Trip and Malcolm break easily.

"As long as Mr Doomsday here doesn't moan and lament the entire time," Trip says with a half-laugh, "I think we should be good, Cap'n."

Malcolm turns red and mutters something which sounds suspiciously like "treacly optimism".

Meanwhile, Captain Archer's shoulders relax. "Then it's a plan. Get what you need, then converge in shuttlebay two in an hour. Dismissed.”

The officers dissipate; Hoshi and T’Pol return to their stations, Travis at the helm, and Archer settles in the Captain’s chair. Malcolm and Trip head for the turbolift and step inside. Malcolm, ever the rule-abiding officer, moves aside to allow him in first.

“Did you finally get some shut-eye last night?” Trip asks as the lift starts to move.

“I didn’t actually fall asleep,” Malcolm admits, “just sort of dozed.”

“You seemed pretty alert during the meeting.”

A sly smile crosses Malcolm’s lips at that. “Three cups of coffee, Commander.”

“Jesus,” Trip laughs, “yer gonna be practically vibratin’ by the time lunch rolls around.”

“It’s better than nearly falling asleep while on duty,” Malcolm shoots back, barely restraining a yawn.

Despite the little sleep he got, Trip feels a rush of renewed energy as he works on the shuttlepod, fine-tuning sensors and adjusting shield polarity, all the while exchanging banter with Malcolm. The two fell into a well-practiced routine the moment they stepped foot in the launch bay, picking up right where they left of before everything, as Trip would put it, went to hell.

Malcolm obviously feels it too. Beneath the man’s unassuming and stone-cold exterior, Trip can see hints of playfulness in his grey eyes every time he jabs at the engineer. It lifts a weight off Trip’s shoulders. Not that he’d ever admit it to Malcolm’s face, but he’s relieved to see his friend not just functioning, but thriving, on the ship. Where he belongs, his mind provides.

They are just finishing the last few check-ups required before launch. The white dwarf system, more specifically the fourth planet from the centre star, awaits their arrival. They'll have to navigate a small asteroid field first and then map out a path avoiding the gravitational fluctuations.

Trip skims through the checklist one more time, then frowns. “Malcolm, are you the one that added ‘phase pistols’ onto here?”

“Hm?” The Lieutenant’s voice echoes from within the shuttlepod. The man himself pops his head out a few moments later, his normally meticulously gelled hair ruffled, a testament to their last few hours of working. “Oh, yes. I assume that’s alright with you?”

Sighing, Trip drops the PADD onto the table. “Malcolm, even if we land on the planet, it's uninhabited. As in there's nothing there. I don’t see why we need ‘em.”

Malcolm gives him a strange look, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “It pays to be prepared, Commander. Would you mind passing me that multispectrum analyzer?”

Trip hands the equipment over, then returns to his PADD. “Okay...” He exhales slowly and goes down the checklist. “Malcolm, how’re the thrusters looking?”

“Could have done with a little more time,” Malcolm admits, “but they’ll do. I do believe your engineers have been slacking, Mr. Tucker.”

Trip gapes at him in mock offence. “You have no proof of those allegations!” he exclaims.

“I suppose I shall escort myself to the brig now, sir?” Malcolm suggests, then he laughs; a bit stiffly, but Trip waves it off. “I’m not quite sure what the matter is, but it isn’t serious, and shouldn’t impact us at all.”

Returning to lighthearted duty, Trip throws a smile back. “Good. What about helm control?

“Helm is working perfectly.”

“Fuel tanks? Oxygen?”

“No problems there.”

Trip nods and flicks upwards on the PADD. “Good. Now for equipment. Ration packs?”

“Enough for a week, just in case. Chef even included meatfloaf.” Malcolm holds up the shiny, silvery package.

“First aid?”

“Check,” confirms Malcolm. “Complete with thermal blankets. We’re not in any danger of freezing to death on this voyage.”

Trip rolls his eyes. Still, he’s glad they’ve gotten to a point where they can joke about the whole near-death ordeal. For the first couple of months afterwards it was a sore subject, and though neither man would admit it, they both eyed shuttlepod one with an element of disdain, maybe even fear. It took them ages to scrounge up the courage to talk to each other about it, and that was only because they'd been avoiding each other so long it had begun to affect their working relationship. Phlox and Archer staged what was virtually an intervention.

Once the checklists are completed and Trip is given the all-clear from the bridge, he signals the launch crew and jogs over to the shuttlepod. Malcolm is just loading in the last crate of… whatever the hell it is. “All good,” the Lieutenant announces with a theatrical dusting of his hands. “After you, sir.”

They clamber into their respective seats: Trip at the helm, Malcolm to his right. The hatch closes behind them, cutting them off from the outside. Through the comm system, a crewman lets them know they’re clear.

“Excited?” Trip inquires as he flicks on the stabilizers.

"You're the one who dragged me into this," Malcolm says. Then, "I mean, maybe if we actually step foot on the planet, I will be."

Trip grins crookedly. "I'll do my best. God knows I'm sick of being cooped up on this ship and this tin can ain't much better - in fact I think it's worse. That shore leave last week seemed way too short. Yeah, even if it's just takin' scans, I think I'd like to step outside for a bit." His eyes land on some readouts and he pauses. "Hey, would ya mind checkin’ on the levels back there? I’m gettin’ somethin' odd from the port stabilizer."

Malcolm sighs but gets up from his seat anyway. “Just a minor pulse feed. It just needs... there we go." The strange readout disappears. Malcolm flops back in his seat, eyes glued to a PADD, and Trip suddenly notices the rigid air around his friend.

"Somethin' up?"

"What?" Malcolm looks up, blinks. "Oh. Er, no. Sorry, I'm just a bit distracted." He covers a yawn with his hand. "Probably just tired." But the way he says it, like he's unconvinced, makes Trip frown.

Still, though, he doesn't pry.

"Right, then." The engine roars to life, and Trip wraps his fingers around the flight controls. "Guess it's time to get this show on the road." The ground drops beneath them and the shuttlepod lurches from Enterprise’s belly, into vast open space.

Chapter Text

They’re fifteen minutes out from Enterprise when the comm chirps to life. Trip glances up from where he's sorting through the engineering rotation as the shuttlepod cruises on autopilot. He shoots a look at Malcolm who only shrugs. With a sigh, he puts down the PADD and activates the comm. “Tucker."

“Trip.” The Captain’s voice resonates throughout the pod. There’s a slight edge his voice, which puzzles Trip. “How are you doing so far?”

“We’re doin’ fine, Cap’n. We’ll be reachin’ the planet in a couple of hours. How about you?”

“Pretty good.” There’s a brief pause. “Trip, I’m afraid there’s been a, uh, hitch in the plan.”

From where he’s seated on the bench, Malcolm glances up. Trip asks, “What kind of hitch?”

“Hoshi detected an automated distress call coming from a light year and a half away. It's a single ship, no hostilities to be seen, maybe just broken down we think. It’s about a thirty-six hour round trip at warp three, in addition to however long we stay for. I’m hoping it won’t be longer than three days at most.”

Malcolm comes up beside Trip, frowning. “Do you want us to return to the ship, Captain?”

Archer sighs. “Not necessarily. Given how long it will take for the computer to fully comprehend your scans, T’Pol pointed out that it would be logical to leave you here to finish while we go answer the distress call. In that sense, it's no different from the original plan." There's a small scuffle, but otherwise silence. The Captain is calling from his ready room, then, given the absence of background blips and voices.“Now, I have full faith in your abilities, both of you. And I know your supplies are in excess and will last. I’m just a bit concerned about how much farther away we'll be to answer this call."

Trip and Malcolm exchange knowing looks. The Captain’s concern is not unwarranted. In fact, Trip is lying if he says he’s without apprehension of his own. Still, they’ve come this far already, and it’s not as if this system poses any immediate threat to them. They've done multiple full sensor sweeps with output boosted to the maximum and found nothing, not even the slightest hint of intelligent, space-faring life.

“I believe we’ll be fine, sir,” Malcolm responds. He hesitates before adding, “Would you… like me to return to the ship? I’m sure someone else can take my place if-”

"Malcolm," Archer cuts in, "the ship won't fall apart if she's without her chief tactical officer for three days. You have a competent set of tactical and security crewmen that you've trained yourself. I'm sure you have faith in them."

"I do." Malcolm purses his lips, glances briefly at Trip. There's that on-edge feel about him again, like he's anticipating something going wrong at any moment. One could say that was just Malcolm all the time, but this is different, Trip can tell. "If you think it's okay, sir..."

"I'm asking you two the same."

Do they think it's okay? Trip admits, it's not ideal, and it's not like these scans are super important - but a part of him, maybe a childish part, says he should take this as a chance to prove himself. Themselves.

Also, returning to the ship could waste time that these people in distress may not have.

Looking at Malcolm, Trip is not at all surprised to find his own conviction mirrored in the Lieutenant's eyes. "Go on, Cap'n. We can handle ourselves."

"Understood." Archer sounds relieved and guilty all in one. "Good luck, you two. Stay safe, we'll see you in three days."

"Good luck as well, sir," Malcolm says.

And then the comm. line clicks shut. In the distance, Trip can just make out the telltale glow of the warp engine preparing to jump, and then there's a flash, and all he can see is a backdrop of stars. Here one second and gone the next.

The shuttlepod is silent.

"Well, that's it, then." Malcolm throws his hands up, and when he meets Trip's gaze, elaborates, "We're doomed."

Trip groans. "I thought we talked about this. No pessimism allowed."

"I don't recall such a conversation."

"Well, technically I said as long as Mr Doomsday doesn't make an appearance, but he already has, so-"

"Trip." Malcolm has his head in his hands, his voice is strained. "Please." He doesn't expand, doesn't say anything further, the single, whispered word enough.

And Trip's had enough. "All right, spill it." He flings his chair around and stalks over to the Lieutenant, standing in front of him with his hands on his hips like a mock-up of a scolding teacher. He rocks slightly with the movement of the shuttlepod. "What's going on with you? You've been actin' like there's ants in yer pants ever since we left Enterprise."

"Your imaginative metaphors strike again." Perhaps it's meant as a distraction attempt, but it's not going to work on Trip. Malcolm sighs. "I... I don't know." He drops his hands but his gaze remains downwards, staring a hole through the floor. He goes silent and remains so for a long moment, so Trip sits down across from him, waiting patiently.

"I don't know," Malcolm says again. "I've been having feelings of... anxiety, I think? Ever since we entered this damned system. And it's only gotten worse, this ever-increasing feeling that I should be preparing for something but I don't know what." He clasps his hands together, wrings them a few times. "I'm sorry. It's stupid."

But the words send a shiver down Trip's spine, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. "It's not stupid," he assures. "Yer in tune with yer instincts, you trust them. And I trust you." He procures a PADD from a nearby supply bin and taps through it for a second, before handing it to Malcolm who takes it hesitantly. "I've had the sensors running a background sweep ever since we left," he explains. "These are all the readings, should update every twenty seconds or so. Take a look through 'em and if you find anythin' out of the ordinary, tell me." With a small smile, he stands up and makes his way back to the helm. "In the meantime, I'm flying."

"God help us," Malcolm jokes.

Trip gives a mock cry of outrage and flings the first thing his hand lands on at Malcolm - which happens to be the spare rag he keeps in his uniform pocket. Malcolm ducks expertly, laughs.

As Malcolm sits in the back of the pod combing through the sensor readings, Trip inputs their targeted coordinates and begins to manoeuver through the designated path, avoiding the gravitational pulls and pushes and the clumps of space debris, and he thinks Travis would even be proud of how well he's doing. So far he's only scratched the paint twice, had to reverse thrusters once to pull themselves out of a gravitational pull. They're almost there, almost at the ruins. If T'Pol's calculations are correct, a small gap should form in the gravity fields every couple of hours and allow them to pass through. The landing may be a little bumpy, but it's nothing they can't handle.

The planet is rather unassuming when viewed up close. Its surface is grey and rocky, nearly entirely cloud-covered, with a few mountain peaks breaking through at various intervals. Just as T’Pol predicted, it’s tidally locked, its star-facing surface bleached a slightly lighter shade of grey than the other side.

All in all, it looks pretty miserable. If there is, or once was, any life down there, he reckons it wasn’t an interesting existence they led.

“What should we name it?” Trip pipes up, breaking the silence that has fallen in the shuttle.

Malcolm glances up from his PADD. “Name what?”

“The planet.” Trip waves a hand at the window. “I’m thinking Erebus.”

“After the Greek god?”

Trip shrugs. “Seems fitting, don’t you think? God of darkness, shadows.”

“I’m just surprised you know enough about Greek history to be able to name Erebus,” Malcolm teases. “I would have thought you’d want to name it Batman or something ridiculous.”

“Hey, now.” Trip waggles a finger. “Jus’ ‘cause I got this accent don’t mean I’m uneducated in the classics. ‘sides, ‘Batman’ is a terrible name for a planet.”

Malcolm laughs, warm and real. “Erebus it is.”

Their flight path around the newly named Erebus is erratic and time consuming, though necessary. They double back more times than Trip can count. Once there, Trip checks the sensors and finds that the gap hasn't opened yet, and T'Pol's calculations indicate a waiting period of roughly an hour and a half for it to do so. Trip sighs and leans back in his chair. Well, nothing else to do until then. He pulls out a PADD and begins flicking through movies. Might as well -

Abruptly, Malcolm makes a small choked-off sound, and then there's the clatter of something falling as the Lieutenant rises far too quickly to his feet, and now there's another PADD being shoved in Trip's face. "Commander."

"What?" Trip takes the device, eyes skimming the words on the screen. They widen marginally. His movies forgotten, Trip turns to look at Malcolm and finds him several shades paler than normal. "What is that?"

It's a spike in the readings - the elements familiar. "It's the same one," Malcolm says. "The same one as what I got near that gas giant." Or at least similar, if not exactly the same. Too similar to be a coincidence.

The accusatory nature of Malcolm's expression is not helping anything.

The sudden screech of an alarm nearly throws Trip off his feet. The shuttlepod rocks violently, the effect of an impact. Malcolm scrambles into his seat and his fingers fly over the buttons, eyes flitting back and forth at rapid speed. "It's a ship!" he yells over the din. "A least, I think it-"

Another jolt, this one isn't from an impact, though. Trip's flown enough aircraft to know what that motion was even without the readouts telling him. "One of our thrusters just blew," he hisses. When Malcolm nods, Trip screws his eyes shut for a moment, mutters a curse under his breath, then focuses back on his console. "Right. Unknown ship - possibly - and our thruster is down. We can't manoeuver in the right path like this." He clenches his teeth. "This is gonna be rough. I can try to-"

The next lurch is far too violent to be a minor spacerock or a thruster malfunction. Malcolm is fastened securely in his seat, but Trip isn’t so lucky, and he ends up crashing against the wall of the pod. Stars and white streaks dance across his vision and his thoughts become mushed and muddled, not unlike the pea soup his grandma used to make. The sound around him is muffled, as if someone is holding his head underneath water. He can vaguely hear Malcolm calling his name. Concussion, a part of him realises. How fantastic.

He tries to stand but the floor is unsteady, the waves - waves? - shuttle, the shuttle swaying back and forth. "Th'hell was th't?" he slurs, isn't exactly sure if he's clear or loud enough.

Apparently he is. "Weapons fire," Malcolm answers, and through swimming vision Trip sees Malcolm wrangling with controls that resist his commands. Blue and red - red, he can't tell if that's just the stripes on Malcolm's uniform or blood. Blood, Malcolm could be injured. Trip's just lying here, useless, and Malcolm could be injured, and he has to stand, but when he tries to just collapses back into a pathetic heap and slides across the deck. The alarm continues to blare, echoing strangely in his ears, the pain in his head pounding in time to the rise and fall of the alarm's tone.

"Don't move," Malcolm says next. There's a note of panic, fear in his voice that Trip barely catches. "I can try- I can try to out-fly them, I guess, but-" Weapons hit, sparks fly. "Fucking bollocks!"

"...Land," Trip forces out of his dry throat. "Planet. Malcolm, the planet."

Malcolm looks at him. Or maybe he doesn't, Trip can't really tell, his vision is starting to go spotty and grey. They're tugged to the side, one of the gravi... grav... the things, the things that T'Pol was saying. Trip can't keep his thoughts straight.

"Hang on," Malcolm is telling him. "Hang on, Trip, I think I can make a controlled crash landing-"

The shuttlepod sways against the gravitational forces. Trip tries once more to rise but doesn't get nearly as far this time, and he crumbles back to the ground again. His vision tunnels, sounds becoming muted before fading entirely. Malcolm yells something but he doesn’t hear it. He’s unconscious before they hit the surface.

Chapter Text

Trip’s first thought when he regains the first sliver of awareness is that there’s surprisingly little pain in his body.

His second thought is, wait, why would there be pain?

Bits and pieces of reality fall into place in the following moments. He pries his eyes open and finds that he's near the back of the shuttlepod by the airlock ladder. There's a dull pressure against his abdomen, a piece of metal he can't place the origin of thanks to a combination of fuzzy vision and the poor lighting. He wriggles experimentally. It's loose, and with only a small grunt of discomfort he manages to worm his way to freedom. He slouches back against the wall in a sitting position and tries to stop his head from spinning. Something throbs in his lower chest. He feels like a ragdoll that's been hurled against a wall multiple times and wonders if he looks it too. One or two of his fingers may be broken, if the pain and odd angle is anything to go by, and there's blood drying against his forehead. As far as he can tell, though, there's nothing warranting immediate concern.

Trip frowns. How did he even get injured anyway?

As if in answer, flashes of memory spark within his brain; memories of shuddering walls and sudden jolts, blaring sirens echoing faintly. He gasps, and pain ignites in his chest and he doubles over, controlling his breathing, unable to expand his lungs all the way. He's no doctor, but there's surely something wrong with him internally. The medkit has to be around here somewhere.

Once he gets his breathing under some semblance of control, Trip takes the time to absorb his surroundings. Even from his rather disadvantageous view on the floor he can tell the shuttle is in terrible shape. Main power is down, emergency lights flickering, occasionally sending the shuttle plunging into... not darkness, as there's a dim beam of light shining in through the main window, but close to it. One of the reinforcement beams has come loose and is now hanging precariously over the back benches. Uncomfortably close to his current position. He scooches backwards until he feels safe enough. He hasn’t seen the outside yet, but he imagines it’s just as ugly, if not worse. Actually, his moderate condition comes as a surprise. Perhaps being unconscious during the actual crash prevented any serious injures. We're damn lucky to be alive.

The plural pronoun catching up with him, Trip’s eyes snap open. He wasn’t the only one involved this crash. Hurriedly, he turns his gaze to the pilot’s seat.

There's a pair of legs sticking out from behind it, the owner's upper half obscured.

“Shit,” Trip curses aloud. Adrenaline and fear courses through his veins. He struggles to his feet, using the wall as a crutch and ignoring how the air feels abruptly thinner. "Malcolm?" There's no response, the legs don't even so much as twitch. Malcolm's probably unconscious like he was. Probably injured. Maybe de-

He cuts off that train of thought immediately. "Malcolm?" Trip says again, staggering forward almost cautiously towards the front, praying what meets his eyes won't be nightmare-inducing.

It isn't. Though he's obviously a bit worse for wear, a little pale in the dim light, Malcolm's chest rises and falls in even, if slightly shallow, intervals. Trip sighs in relief, dropping to his knees beside his friend. He already feels beaten and bruised all over, Malcolm can't be faring better. He certainly doesn't look it. His face is bruised, the beginnings of a black eye forming, and his hands are strangely red and calculations run through Trip's mind as he thinks about what the landing vector looked like. Steep for sure, but enough to cause that much pressure? Focus, Trip! Malcolm's upper half is slightly worse for wear but as Trip runs his hands up Malcolm's arms and sides, finding no clear injuries or broken bones, it's obvious that most of him was spared.

Most of him. Because now that he's closer, Trip can see the unnatural angle Malcolm's right leg is bent at.

His head is still foggy, thoughts unclear, but he manages to haul himself back upright nonetheless. He needs a light. Don’t they have torches in the emergency kits?

After finding one, Trip flicks it on, inadvertently shining it directly in Malcolm’s face. The beam is enough to rouse the Lieutenant. A groan passes his lips, expression twisting against the wake-up call, and finally the blue-grey eyes blink open, slightly glazed, but whether from head trauma or because he's just waking up Trip can't tell. Either way, Malcolm's alive. “Thank god,” Trip breathes.

Malcolm brings a lazy hand over his face and mumbles, “Would you point that somewhere else?”

“Sorry.” Trip aims the torch beam at the ceiling. “You okay, Malcolm?”

Malcolm doesn't respond, lifting his head as his gaze travels downwards towards his legs. He looks back up at Trip. "You're really asking me that?" His voice hitches slightly in clear pain.

Trip grimaces. He reaches one hand out to grip Malcolm's shoulder, not really sure why he does so, but the action grounds him somewhat. "At least we're alive," he mutters. Then, when the moment becomes a bit too dreary, he unwittingly resorts to his defensive tactic: rambling. "You, uh, really did a number on the shuttle, by the way."

"I did the best I could." The corner of Malcolm's mouth quirks upwards. "We had someone shooting at us and the gravitational forces nearly pulling us apart; I barely managed to pull us out of a nosedive." He sits up with Trip's assistance, suppressing a yelp when he reflexively jerks his leg.

"Yeah, well, at least you'll keep me and my team busy for a few days," Trip says. He tries to help Malcolm lean against the wall and gets swatted at for it. Perspiration dots the Lieutenant's forehead, his expression twisted in pain. Trip's gut knots in concern. "We need to get you fixed up, Mal. Soon as possible."

Malcolm gestures with his head towards one of the crates he packed. "Med-scanner's in there," he breathes.

As Trip rummages around in search for it, his ears prick up at the sound of the Lieutenant's voice, clearly not meant for him to hear. "Always the leg," Malcolm bemoans under his breath. "Of course it's always the bloody leg. Where else would it be? Useless, damn useless..."

It's both funny and worrying at the same time. Trip pretends not to have heard when he returns, scanner in hand. He crouches back down at Malcolm's side and a tidal wave of nausea washes over him, forcing his eyes to screw shut and his mouth to close to prevent his breakfast from reappearing. From somewhere far away, Malcolm asks, "What's wrong? Are you all right, Commander?"

"Fantastic." Trip opens his eyes again. "I'm pretty sure I have a concussion." More evidence is stacked in favour of this when, upon running the scanner over Malcolm's leg, the readings turn from comprehensible words to gibberish right before his eyes. "Yeah, I can't read this." He reluctantly places the device in Malcolm's outstretched, impatient hand, and after a few anxious moments the Lieutenant visibly relaxes.

"My right leg's fractured, not open, but I already knew that. Left looks fine." Without preamble, he runs the scanner over Trip. "You have a concussion, two broken fingers, and one of your ribs is cracked."

"We can deal with those later." Trip waves him off, doesn't mention the dull ache in his gut, the throbbing pain every time he moves his fingers. "Right now your leg is the primary concern. No arguments," he adds, when Malcolm opens his mouth. Blue-grey eyes narrow but he soon relents.

Briefly, they debate moving outside where the light is better - not by much - but ultimately decide to remain in the shuttlepod. Malcolm could potentially harm himself further, and Trip doesn't exactly fancy dragging the deceivingly-not-light Lieutenant out the hatch by himself in his current condition. Trip splints Malcolm's leg as gently as possible, opting to keep his boot on as shimmying it off would do more harm than good, and they don't have the right tools to cut it off safely. Malcolm left his non-regulation knife on Enterprise.

The mechanical splint whirrs softly, clicking into place around Malcolm's leg over top his uniform. If he's being honest, Trip was surprised to find the thing hiding among the medical supplies, wonders if the medical team just anticipated the possibility things would go wrong and packed as much as they could. It's well known that when something involves the two dubbed the "Disaster Duo", plans are bound to go sideways.

Trip injects another dose of painkiller into the Lieutenant's neck just to be on the safe side, then they both sit back, taking a breather. There's nothing small enough to immobilize Trip's fingers so he wraps them in spare bandages instead. The loss of dexterity annoys him somewhat; someone's gotta fix the pod, and Malcolm's engineering expertise lies in a much narrower field than his own.

They patch up each other's minor injuries. The cut on Trip's forehead, the minor burns to Malcolm's hands. There's nothing they can do for the bruises, nor Trip's rib. "You'll just have to be careful not to move much," Malcolm tells him.

Or breathe too deeply, Trip tacks on in his mind. He can barely get a full lungful of air before the uncomfortable pressure comes back.

"You feel better?" Trip asks his companion, breaking the silence. At Malcolm's slightly lazy nod - the painkillers must be taking effect - Trip smiles. Relief, clashing with the worry still present in his eyes. "Mind if I take a look around? I wanna know where you stranded us."

"We're not stranded," Malcolm points out. "But go ahead. I can't really move much."

Trip nods and wobbles to his feet.

The planet was dreary-looking from a distance; nothing has changed now that they're actually on it. A rocky wasteland stretches out in all directions for what seems like miles, dust storms swirling in and obscuring whatever’s in the distance, and given the permanent twilight state of the planet, the land has an almost surreal quality to it. Grey rocks jut out from beneath layers of sand. Perhaps half a mile away Trip can make out something else, too, something bleached almost white and the patterns don't look random.

The ruins. Malcolm actually managed to land them near the ruins despite everything going on at the time.

Trip walks around the shuttlepod and inspects the damage. The nose is warped from their rough landing, the underside scratched and paint nearly gone, revealing the silver panels beneath. One of the wings is chipped. Trip isn't going to take apart the thruster now, but even from a cursory glance he knows it's going to take some time to fix.

When he steps back inside the pod, he's surprised to find Malcolm has moved and is rummaging through a pile of debris with a vaguely frantic look on his face. "Hey, what's going on?" Trip asks, and Malcolm jumps.

"Oh." The Lieutenant's shoulders sag. "Trip. Sorry, I..." He runs a hand through his hair and turns his attention back to the pile. "Give me a second, I know it was... Ah, got it!" He procures a PADD, the screen slightly scuffed but it's still working perfectly.

"What're you doing?" Trip squats down next to his friend.

Malcolm's brow furrows. "Before we went down," he explains, "I caught that reading again, the same one that was near the gas giant during T'Pol's mission." Ah, Trip vaguely recollects that, but his memory of the shuttlepod crash is rather hazy. "It appeared at the exact same time we got hit by weapons fire." Malcolm looks up at him. "Trip, the reading was a ship. Is a ship."

You were wrong.

Malcolm's thinking it. Trip hears the words though they remain unspoken.

"Are you sure?" he asks anyway, and Malcolm's face darkens.

"I'm sure, Commander." The PADD is thrust under Trip's nose. "I know the readings are erratic, but it's not a coincidence. That's a ship. And whoever it was fired at us."

Trip scrolls through the words on the screen. Apprehension slithers into the back of his mind, and the engineering side of him wants to deny Malcolm's claims, but the other side - his emotional side - is in complete agreement.

"...Did you get a look at them?" he ventures.

Malcolm shakes his head. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologise, you were pretty preoccupied." He lays a hand against Malcolm's arm. Is the lieutenant trembling?

"I should have paid more attention. They could be coming back for us."

"Hey, no, none of that." Trip's eyebrows knit together. "I admit, the thought is... terrifyin', but that don't really matter right now. None of it will if we can't get our pod back up and runnin'. She's taken a hit, but it's not unfixable."

Pale lips purse into a thin line. "I hate when you're the rational one. It's scary."

"Hey!" Trip laughs, throwing his head back.

Malcolm laughs along, sobering up quickly, however; piecing himself back into the formal, rigid persona of Lieutenant Reed. "What do you need me to do, sir?"

“Sit there and rest,” Trip commands. “Yer not puttin’ any weight on that leg.”

“Commander, it’s broken, not cut clean off!”

“I may not be a doctor, Mal, but even I know that puttin’ any sorta strain on a broken bone is bad. C'mon, I thought you had better self-preservation instincts than this."

Malcolm grows silent. “I can’t just sit here twiddling my thumbs,” he says eventually. “Anyway, I’m a capable engineer, and this isn’t a one-man job. Not to mention that you're the one with the head trauma here.”

Okay, Malcolm's got him there. Trip sighs heavily. "Fine. But yer sittin' yer ass down on that bench and not movin' a muscle while you do it."

They end up splitting the tasks. Trip tackles the shuttlepod hands-on, returning fallen items to their rightful place and realigning some parts of the sensor array, while Malcolm dutifully glues himself to the bench, scrutinizing the emergency beacon under a flashlight.

“This looks like someone took a sledgehammer to it,” the armoury officer observes, frowning.

Trip spares a glance from where he kneels in front of the piloting console. Parts of it are warped, not too drastically, though it seems some of the circuits got knocked out of alignment or snapped completely in the crash landing. “Is it fixable?”

“Probably. But we’d either need a miracle, or one insanely good chief engineer.” Malcolm's eyes flick to him. “Better start praying for a miracle.”

“Hey!”

As much as they bicker and bring into question each other’s competence, they are indeed fully aware of the other’s skill and expertise.

Malcolm pulls out a scanner and runs it over the ruined emergency beacon. Trip watches him for a few seconds, pleased to see some lines of worry have vanished from the man’s face, before he turns his focus on the frizzed helm control in front of him.

A few hours pass. They work in silence, save for the occasional groan of pain when Malcolm accidentally jostles his leg, or Trip’s vocal frustration at the shuttlepod. His headache has gotten worse, like there’s two dozen ice picks drilling directly into his brain.

He drops the hyperspanner without meaning to and doubles in on himself, groaning, head clamped between shaking hands. Around him, the planet tilts on its axis, spinning into a blur of brilliant colours.

“Commander?” Malcolm’s voice drips with concern from… somewhere. Trip can’t quite pinpoint it. “Commander, are you alright?”

Trip’s response is a weak groan.

There’s the sound of scuffling, someone taking deep, shaking breathes, and then a hand is on his shoulder. Malcolm must have hobbled his way over. He shouldn’t be doin’ that on a broken leg, Trip thinks.

“Trip,” Malcolm says, much closer now.

“’s nothing,” Trip grates out. “I’m fine.”

Malcolm snorts. “That’s my line. And you are obviously not fine, Commander. You have a concussion.”

Trip forces himself to raise his head and trains his eyes on the blue blur in front of him which must be his friend. “I’m fine,” he reiterates. “Hafta fix the pod.”

A sudden bout of nausea overtakes him, and he barely makes it to the hatch before he vomits up the minimum contents of his stomach. He can feel Malcolm’s eyes boring into his back as he sputters and heaves his dignity away.

“Any better?” the Lieutenant inquires.

“A little,” Trip admits. He turns around, using the doorframe as a crutch, and musters a weak grin in Malcolm’s direction. “Maybe yer right. I’m not fine.”

Malcolm’s gaze softens. “Neither of us are,” he says. “Trip, take it from me: pushing yourself doesn't help in the long run. You're the chief engineer." He looks away briefly. "...I need you at your best. That means knowing when to stop and take a break."

Trip smiles a little. "'Take it from you', the one who I've found passed out in the armoury more times than I can count?"

"Do as I say, not as I do." Malcolm shrugs, eases himself into the pilot's seat to take the weight off his leg. "I can work further on the emergency beacon while you rest."

"Yer not gonna rest as well?" Trip asks.

"You're the one who almost fainted on me just now."

"I didn't almost faint!"

"Passed out. Is that better? Either way, you shouldn't really be working with a concussion at all; we just don't have any other options, unfortunately."

Trip opens his mouth to argue when another wave of nausea washes over him and he groans, clutching the side of his head. “The light is startin’ to bother me some,” he admits. Staggeringly, he heads over to the clear bench Malcolm was sitting on earlier and flops down, sways, then slowly lowers himself onto his side. His eyes slide shut on their own. Malcolm makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a muffled chuckle.

"You don't want anything to eat before you fall asleep?" the Lieutenant asks.

The thought of food makes him feel worse, and Trip clenches his teeth. "Not right now."

"Mm." The buzz of a hyperspanner, the click of something sliding into place. "Don't force yourself to stay awake, Trip. I'll keep watch."

"Y'don't have to," Trip mutters. The world is slowing falling away around him.

"Well, actually, I do. If no one's monitoring while you sleep, there's a chance you may slip away and die, Trip. So don't tell me I don't have to."

The thought is grim but not untrue. Without proper medical scanning equipment, they can’t yet surmise the severity of Trip’s concussion. His only comfort is that it can’t be too bad: his memory is fine, he can hold a conversation, and his vision only spins if he’s been staring at something too long.

“Fine,” Trip mumbles. “Wake me up in a couple hours and we’ll swap places.”

From the way Malcolm only grunts in response, Trip suspects he’s not going to listen.

Chapter Text

On a planet where the sun barely moves from its point in the sky, without a working chronometer among them, it’s hard to determine how much time has passed. Trip tries to use his inner clock, but the concussion seems to be causing it to malfunction. Malcolm estimates that they've been stranded here for around a day. They were fortunate to find some of their food rations intact, their water tank still fairly full. The temperature is cold but bearable, and even if the occasional dust storm drives them into the shelter of the ruined shuttlepod, it’s clear they’re not in any immediate danger.

Trip sits on the floor in front of the helm, squinting down at the jumble of circuits and wires which used to hook up the comm. system to main power. It's tough work with his broken fingers but he's nothing if not adaptable. “I can’t tell if I’m grateful the light ain’t makin’ my headache worse,” he comments, “or if I’d rather suffer the agony and be able to see what I’m doin’."

Across the pod, Malcolm asks, “Need someone to hold the flashlight for you?”

“Nah, I’ll manage.” Trip rubs his temples briefly, wonders if it would be worth freezing some of their water rations if it'll dull his headache a bit. “How’s restorin’ emergency power goin’ for you?”

“I feel like we should be putting our energy into repairing the beacon,” the Lieutenant says by way of answer.

Trip turns around to glower at his friend. “That beacon won’t do shit if we can’t boost the signal enough to get it off the planet, Malcolm. ‘sides, we get emergency power online, we got our comm. system back, temperature controls, filters.” He turns back to the helm. At least he's managed to put the pilot console back together, though the science station is shot to all hell, and their sensors are mid-range at best.

By the time Trip’s stomach signals it’s time for a food break, the engineer is exhausted, sweaty, nauseous, and downright pissed. His entire body trembling, he worms his way out from under the helm, moving slowly so as not to disrupt his coordination too much. Malcolm watches him and grinds his teeth ever-so-subtly. His hands twitch, he leans forward as if to stand but decides against it. All the more better. Malcolm's already been working too hard despite his broken leg, he doesn't need to make it worse. Trip makes it up off the floor on his own, struggles over to the bench and sits down with a whoof of exhaled air. Now close to his friend, he can see that Malcolm is just as bad as he is; sweating, pale, a permanent grimace of pain on his face. "Need another shot of painkiller?” Trip asks.

Malcolm shakes his head. “Not at the moment. The one you gave me this mor- uh, earlier is still working.”

Bullshit, Trip thinks, but he doesn’t fight. He’ll give Malcolm another shot later on. After a short rest, he lugs himself over to where their food rations have been stored away.

They eat in silence. Trip manages to get about a third of his meatloaf down before he starts to gag and retch, and he stumbles out of the pod to throw up. Malcolm eyes him as he makes his way back to the bench. Wordlessly, he hands the engineer a water bottle.

That stays down, at least.

He gives up on forcing a full meal down and instead nibbles on an energy bar. He tries to tell Malcolm to continue working, but the Lieutenant is just as stubborn as he is and refuses to move until both of them are sure Trip’s meager snack will stay down. It does, but Trip’s vision has started to spin again, and Malcolm practically forces him to have a break while he works. “Just who’s the superior officer here?” Trip tries to challenge, but Malcolm already has his back turned. “Stubborn little insubordinate."

He doesn't mean it; it's meant to aggravate his friend if anything, but it doesn't work. Malcolm remains as impassive as ever as he returns to the beacon. Not emergency power, like Trip asked.

Whatever. Trip's too tired to fight this time. Someone's hammering away at his skull with a hyperspanner and all he wants to do is lie down and rest his eyes for a few minutes - and no, Malcolm, he doesn't need painkiller. You need it more than me, is what he doesn't say out loud.

“Commander.”

Malcolm’s voice cuts through the haze of his mind and. Without moving a muscle, Trip mutters a halfhearted, “Yeah?”

“Commander.” It comes more forcibly this time, an obvious incentive to catch his attention. Curious and annoyed at the same time, Trip hauls himself upright.

He glances around, vision clearing, and spots Malcolm hovering halfway out the shuttlepod hatch, holding out the scanner like a sacrifice to some god. Trip can't see his face like that. “The hell are you doin’?” he demands, standing up, then promptly sagging back against the shuttlepod wall as a wave of dizziness washes over him.

“Look.” Malcolm shoves the scanner in his face. Trip blinks. “Am I reading this correctly?”

“It looks like gibberish to me, Mal. I have a concussion,” Trip reminds him.

Malcolm's grey eyes flit away. “Right. Well,” he lowers the scanner and taps at it. “According to this, there’s something generating a faint energy signature, about forty kilometres from here.” He pauses, swallowing. “It’s getting closer.”

Now, that hits Trip like a physical slap. “What?”

“I can’t tell what it is,” Malcolm continues, only the slightest hitch betraying his careful tone. “Not yet. It doesn’t appear to be an aircraft, the movement is all wrong. Too jagged.”

“Any bio-signs?” Trip leans over Malcolm’s shoulder despite his concussion rendering him unable to make sense of the scanner’s results. He tries anyway.

Malcolm gives a minuscule shake of his head. “Indeterminate. I think we should assume it’s a manned ground vehicle. Commander.” He turns so that they are eye to eye, and Trip is surprised to find the slightest hint of fear dancing in Malcolm’s grey ones. “Given the circumstances, it’s very possible that these are the same people who shot at us.”

“Now, hang on a minute,” Trip says. “How d’we know that? How d’we know it’s not just some… I dunno, some friendly locals comin’ to see why a fireball landed on their planet?” He doesn’t sound convincing to his own ears, so he suspects Malcolm doesn’t believe a word.

“Because, sir, this planet is no longer capable of actively supporting life. T’Pol said so during the briefing. Perhaps if you were listening…” Malcolm cuts himself off, screws his eyes shut, and sighs. “We have no clue how advanced these people’s technology is. They could have detected us through the gravitational forces while our own ship can’t get past them.”

"So what d’you recommend?”

Malcolm’s expression hardens. “As chief security and tactical officer, it’s my duty to keep you safe. Whether or not these people are the aliens who shot us down, they’ll be here in a little less than forty-five minutes. I recommend that we move away from here as soon as possible.”

Trip stares at his friend for a few seconds, the information taking longer than normal to sink in. “Move away from here?” he echoes. “Where the hell would we go? We’re surrounded by wastelands and mountains in the distance.”

“I don’t know, but-”

“And what about yer leg?” Trip presses. “Yer not gonna get very far on that, are you?”

Malcolm’s gaze drops to stare at his injury. “I’ll stay behind,” he says eventually. “I’ll hold them off, you can run.”

“You’ll ho- Malcolm, for god’s sake, this is extreme for even you!” Trip lurches to his feet, ignoring the nausea that comes with it, and crosses the shuttlepod with two strides and clamps his hands on Malcolm’s shoulders. “Even if… hell, I’d never leave you behind. You know I can’t do that.”

The tension drains out of Malcolm in an instant. His muscles slacken, the raw energy fades from his eyes, and he hunches forward, burying his face in his hands. “Bugger,” comes the muffled epithet. “Trip, I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.”

“No, it’s not.” Malcolm raises his head, expression forlorn. “I should know better than this. I shouldn’t be engaging in a spat with my superio– my friend,” he amends. “I just don’t know what’s going on. I've felt so wound up this whole time, and it hasn't gone away, and sometimes it just explodes - I don't know. All I do know is that there's been this perpetual feeling of wrongness within me ever since we picked up this planet on sensors."

That long? Trip thinks back, but Malcolm's always been good at concealing his emotions, and he can't remember Malcolm seeming either tense or off until they even launched. And he's kept that bottled up inside all this time? "Why didn't you say somethin'?"

A wry smile tugs at Malcolm's lips. "You'd have all thought me paranoid. I know you already do."

That takes the wind out of Trip's sails. "Malcolm, I don't-" He huffs in frustration. "I don't think yer paranoid. Not about this, anyway." Maybe there was a time where Trip would have believed this was a coincidence. That the ship that shot at them was different from the alleged people currently approaching them on the planet. He would've been adamant about it, butted heads with Malcolm.

Maybe it would have lead to their deaths. Maybe he would have been proven right.

Either way, it doesn't matter. Trip isn't that person anymore.

"The ruins," he says.

Malcolm cocks an eyebrow. "What?"

"Contrary to what you think, I was listenin' at the debrief." Trip pokes his head out of the shuttlepod hatch, squinting against the sand flying around lazily. "T'Pol said something about those ruins havin' radiation around them, somethin' about what it did to scans." He hesitates. "Actually, that's all I recall."

"Of course it is." Malcolm smirks, then shifts into Officer Mode. "She suspects it's a leftover device now long buried as it's only in a very small radius. Probably made them very sick and may be the reason whoever these people were died, but there's not enough radiation to seriously harm anyone. However, due to the nature of the radiation waves, certain bio-signs can be obscured..." He trails off, realisation dawning on him. "Hide in the ruins, sir? They're don't provide much cover."

"They're pretty much all we got," Trip argues. "Unless you wanna hike it all the way to those mountains on that leg."

"No, sir," Malcolm mutters. "I just think this 'plan', if we can even call it that, sounds awfully tedious and reliant on luck. Who's to say those aliens don't have technology that can get past the radiation? How long must we stay there? The radiation isn't toxic at first, but as time goes on..."

"Malcolm." Trip grabs his friend's shoulders again, gives him a shake. "Yer spirallin'. Is this the best plan? No. Yer right, it's not even a plan. It's a desperate attempt to conceal ourselves from whoever's comin’, whether or not they're hostile, I think I should add." Maybe deep down, the old Trip still exists somewhere. "But the ruins are close. We can keep hidden until these people leave, then come back to the shuttle."

The Lieutenant bites his bottom lip, tilts his head to the side. "I still don't like the odds."

"Yeah, well, me neither." Trip lets go of Malcolm and stumbles backwards to lean heavily against the wall. At Malcolm's concerned gaze, he crosses his arms, tries to look as non-nonchalant as possible. "But I think the universe owes us a good one after what it's put us through lately."

"I don't trust the universe with bourbon - you think I trust it to be fair?"

Laughter breezes past Trip's lips easily, and then Malcolm's chuckling along, and by the time they've regained themselves a fraction of the tension has been sucked away.

They pack quick, if not particularly light. Three water canteens, as many ration bars as they can get their hands on, the medkit, the flashlights. Trip’s engineering supplies, their only working hand communicator, and of course, the phase pistols, which Malcolm reminds Trip with an air of gloating that he was the one who thought they'd be unnecessary. "Yeah, yeah." Trip waves his hand. "Rib me later. I'll have thought up a good comeback then."

The backpack strains against its contents but holds as Trip slings it over his shoulder. No way is he letting Malcolm carrying it, as much as he insists it's his leg broken and not his arm. Trip finally relented to getting a dose of painkiller which, he has to admit, certainly made him feel a lot better. His mind's still covered in cobwebs and Standard text make as much sense to him as Vulcan, but at least he can concentrate without a tiny engineer in his head banging on every open conduit in there.

"C'mon." With a grunt, Trip takes Malcolm's arm and heaves it over his own shoulders, lifting the Lieutenant upright, careful not to jostle his injured leg. The splint keeps it steady but does nothing for the pain. "You okay?"

"Fine," Malcolm manages through gritted teeth. "Honestly, the bullet and the mine were worse."

Oh. 'Always the leg' Malcolm said earlier. He's right, isn't he? How is Trip only figuring that out now? "Let me know if it becomes too much and we'll stop for a break."

"We can't do that," Malcolm says quickly, adding when he sees Trip's look: "That... vehicle is already less than half an hour away. It's ten minutes out to the ruins, more with me slowing you down. And Commander, I think-"

"I swear, if you suggest I leave you behind, I'll give you a concussion."

Malcolm closes his mouth. "That's not what I was going to say," he remarks softly. "I was going to say, I think we should leave some sort of note for Enterprise."

Flashbacks to their stint in Shuttlepod One, being continuously awoken by Malcolm's moody, pessimistic ramblings as he remembered yet another girl or guy he forgot to add to his long list of goodbyes, comes to Trip's mind. "I'm not listenin' to anymore goddamn "If yer hearin' this I'm dead" recordin's from you."

"I was thinking more of a "You can find us here" sort of deal." Malcolm's voice is cool. "We haven't really left any logs."

Trip purses his lips, glances at the comm. system. They did manage to get it somewhat functional, only able to receive messages and not respond - and how ironic is that? He doesn't anticipate staying at the ruins long. Or at least, the optimistic side of him, the one that died-but-didn't-really-die, doesn't.

"Just in case," Malcolm says.

"Fine." Trip unwinds himself from Malcolm and helps him back to the bench. "Just gimme one minute."

And that's all it takes, and in no time at all they're hobbling out of the shuttlepod, Malcolm's arm slung over Trip's shoulder, leaning heavily into the engineer but obviously trying not to. Each time something jostles his leg - a rock, a sudden incline, Trip's own foot - he winces and sucks a breath through his teeth, otherwise not making a sound. Trip asks him if he's all right, and Malcolm gives the same answer every time: "I'll live."

A small sandstorm has picked up, the wind blowing almost lazily, tossing sand in their eyes and into their clothes. Trip shifts, uncomfortable. Malcolm reaches his free hand up and wipes his watering eyes. "Blasted sand," he mutters. "Hate the damn stuff. Hate deserts."

"We can agree on that," Trip replies.

"Ten minutes out to the ruins - more with me slowing you down." Malcolm wasn't wrong, as much as Trip hates to admit it. He estimates if he were alone he could've gotten there by now. But the ruins are still just out of reach, occasionally obscured by the swirling sand. At least it's calmed down some.

Suddenly the scanner in his pocket blares. Trip nearly jumps out of his skin at the noise, accidentally causing Malcolm to stumble, cry out in pain. "Shit, sorry!" Trip exclaims.

"It's fine." Malcolm grinds his teeth. "What's it yelling for?"

"No clue." They've stopped now, briefly, though Trip is anxious to keep moving and he can tell Malcolm is too. "Mind grabbin' it outta my pocket? My hands are full and I can't read it anyway."

They rest against a large rock, Trip taking the chance to slip the heavy bag off his shoulders as Malcolm clicks through the scanner. "We've entered the radiation zone," the Lieutenant says. "It was warning us, I think."

"I thought the radiation wasn't immediately dangerous?"

"It's not. Just a precaution."

Trip holds out his hand for the scanner. "I want to check somethin’." It's placed into his palm and he fiddles with the buttons for a moment, then holds the scanner up in front of Malcolm, waves it around, before looking back at the screen. Knitted eyebrows fade into a small smile hinting at relief. "Apparently, Lieutenant, you don't exist."

Malcolm makes a sound somewhere between a huff and a laugh. "So it works for our technology."

"Let's just hope it works for the aliens'." Trip straightens up, replaces the scanner. He holds his hand out to help Malcolm up. "C'mon, we should get further in just in case."

Most of the ruins are buried under layers of sand. The tops of thick columns, foundations, and statues peek out through the grains. There are dips here and there where the wind has brushed it away. The archaeology department would be having a field day, Trip thinks, eyeing what appears to be depictions of some strange bird-goat creature engraved onto the side of a pillar.

They stop inside what could have been a house, breathing heavily, - the air is thinner than on Earth - chugging water down their dry throats, checking on wounds that may have been aggravated in the short walk. Trip stupidly tries to run the med-scanner up Malcolm's leg before remembering the radiation and puts it away, ears red, as Malcolm smirks.

It's a moderate disadvantage. Malcolm doesn't seem worse, but Trip isn't a medical professional, and Malcolm is scarily good at hiding his true feelings. Trip decides to hold onto the optimism inside him and instead opts to hand burn cream to Malcolm for his hands. His own broken fingers have started throbbing. He ignores them. His gaze instead travels off in the distance, to the silver glint of their shuttlepod in the dim sunlight. How long did it take them to get here? Fifteen minutes? Those... aliens, they must be aliens; are they near?

How long will they have to stay here?

Trip shakes himself out of his thoughts and look around. The ruins are impressive. "You know," he voices aloud, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Malcolm startle a bit, "While we're here, we might as well carry out our original mission."

Malcolm looks at him in disbelief. "Now? No, hold on, you're the one worrying about the original mission?"

Trip grins, it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I never handled being bored very well." Or being anxious. He needs to do something, and if that something is scanning some ruins then so be it.

"Sir, need I remind you that we're currently trying to lay low? If the aliens do manage to completely miss us-" which is unlikely, Trip hears unspoken "-you'll have plenty of time to preform scans afterwards." He pauses. "Besides, I'd... rather not be alone right now, if it's all the same to you."

And that, that softens Trip's heart.

"It's dangerous, from a tactical point of view," the Lieutenant tacks on hurriedly.

Yeah, sure. A tactical point of view. Trip resists the urge to smirk and sits down beside his friend. "Well, I defer to the expert on that, then."

He doesn't miss the way Malcolm's shoulders sag in relief. "Thank- er, yes, sir. Very good."

But in the end, the reprieve only lasts for little over five minutes. Five minutes later a strange rumbling sound fills the air, and when Trip looks at Malcolm in confusion he's met with a look that is equal part puzzlement and horror, and it only grows when they glance over top the wall they hide behind.

A pair of bright lights in the distance. Not something reflected. Not something familiar.

And it's steadily getting closer.

Oh, fuck.

"Commander," Malcolm says, but he doesn't even get through the full word before Trip is grabbing him by the arm and dragging him to his feet- er, foot.

There's really no place to run. No proper shelter, just as Malcolm said earlier. Just ruined walls and pillars and statues dedicated to a people long dead. They find a large wall near the perimetre and collapse behind it, Trip's panting, Malcolm's shaking.

"What do we do?" Trip rasps. "I didn't think they'd find us. How'd they find us?"

Malcolm glares at him without any bite behind it. "You think I know? I told you, just because our scanners can't pick up bio-signs in this radiation doesn't mean theirs can't."

"This isn't-" Trip purses his lips, grumbles. This isn't helping. "What do we do?" He can hear the clear hum of an engine now, not something too advanced if that loud clicking sound is anything to go by. Ground vehicle engine circa Earth 2060s, maybe.

"I don't know." Malcolm looks at him, eyes wide. "...You can run."

"I swear to god, Mal, I will fucking slap you." Trip's tears his gaze away and rips through the pack, pulls out the phase pistols and shoves one into Malcolm's hands. "Here. Yer the better shot." He squeezes the handle tight, too tight. His knuckles blanch. His hands are trembling - when did that happen? - his head is spinning, the world is suddenly out of focus. He's aware of Malcolm's all-too-fast breathing, the death grip he has on his own weapon. He's aware of the engine rumbling closer, closer-

Coming to a stop.

Doors slamming.

Voices clambering, their language foreign.

Without thinking, Trip reaches out and grabs Malcolm's wrist, and to his surprise there is no protest.

Footsteps crunch against the sand. Trip looks up, weapon held out in front of him.

An alien rounds the corner. They're so focussed on some device in their hand they don't notice the two humans in front of them, but when they lift their head their eyes widen, and they say something in that foreign tongue again.

And Trip -

Trip shoots.

The beam goes wide. The alien squawks, stumbles, their device flying from their hand and landing in the sand. They yell something, it sounds like an order, and suddenly there are more of them, all with weapons trained at the two of them. Trip raises his phase pistol again but one of the aliens shifts, flicking something on his own weapon. Trip doesn't need any sort of translation to understand.

That weapon's now set to kill.

"Trip," comes Malcolm's voice - but it can't be Malcolm, because Malcolm doesn't sound so small, so terrified.

"Yeah," is all Trip says in response. He doesn't look at his friend. His eyes are trained on the aliens slowly gathering around them.

The same aliens who took Malcolm, Rivers, and Hamaya all those months ago.

Chapter Text

He can feel the coarse sand beneath him, the rough rock where his back is pressed against the remains of a wall, the warmth of Malcolm's shoulder against his - but none of it still feels real, not really. Like he's dreaming. Detached. His eyes trail over the aliens one by one, taking in their garb clearly meant for desert travel, the guns that are much more advanced than theirs yet look like they're falling apart from overuse, and he notices the last alien is different. The one he shot at. That one wears simple plainclothes, no sign of a weapon on their person.

He lowers the phase pistol. There's nothing he can do, surrounded as they are.

The world snaps back into clarity by the sound of a voice speaking English, the tone tinny and warped. "Can you understand me?"

Trip looks up in surprise. The alien wearing different clothes has now stepped closer to them and holds up a small circular device in front of them. A translator, Trip surmises. The alien watches him carefully for signs of recognition.

Trip vows to give them none.

The alien frowns and pokes at their device a couple times. The one behind them wearing a long black cloak huffs in clear annoyance and snaps something, which the first alien retorts with something in a similar tone. Then they hold the device out in front of them once again. "Can you hear my words? Can you understand me?"

Trip still continues to stare up at them defiantly. Beside him, he feels Malcolm curl inwards slightly under all the scrutiny, he can almost hear the lieutenant's rapid heartbeat. Still though, he's putting up a brave face, lips pursed, fingers clasped tight around his phase pistol which, unlike Trip, he hasn't dropped.

"How can you be sure it's their language?" another voice, equally as distorted, comes, and Trip and Malcolm's eyes flick to the alien in the black cloak.

"It makes sense," the first alien responds over their shoulder. "It's what we downloaded from the wreck of their crash."

"How can you be sure it's their crash?"

"Do you see any other aliens around?"

But all Trip can think is, they found our shuttlepod. "What the hell are you on about?" he snaps without thinking, and five - no, six, including Malcolm - pairs of eyes flick towards him.

The first alien looks to be suppressing a smile. "So you can understand me! Excellent. We're sorry if we scared you, we weren't sure what to expect." They wave a hand and the weapons are pointed at the ground, the three aliens' stances shifting into something more relaxed. Trip takes this opportunity to raise his phase pistol again, about to ask a question, but Malcolm beats him to it before he can open his mouth.

"Who are you? What do you want?" Despite clear fear in his body language, Malcolm's voice betrays none of it, instead portraying his usual air of control and stoicism.

"My name is Lirafik," the first alien says. "Over there is my partner, Sanuv." He gestures behind him, and the black cloak alien - Sanuv - turns away. "We detected an anomalous reading yesterday and when sent to investigate, found your crash. We wanted to make sure you were all right. Ah, this-" he waves his arm in a broad gesture, "-is our planet."

Trip blinks. "No one lives here," he states bluntly. "You're lying. You shot us down, didn't you?" His phase pistol is pointed directly at Lirafik's face; those stupid archways starting at his forehead and fading into his cheekbones. Exactly like the aliens that took Malcolm and Hamaya and killed Rivers. Trip staggers to his feet, realising any attempt at intimidation is useless when he's sitting on the ground, uses the wall to guide himself. Malcolm watches him carefully. "Thought we're easy pickin's injured, did ya?"

Lirafik takes a step back. His hands are outstretched in front of him, palms out. "Of course not! Shot down? Wha-?" His eyes glance at Sanuv briefly before focusing back on Trip. "Whoever shot you, it wasn't us, I promise. We aren't capable of spaceflight at this time. Haven't been for years. Our only ship was dismantled to create our colony." He pauses. "You're right, no one actually lives here. These ruins you stand in are all that remains of what once was likely a bustling civilization. We're temporarily inhabitants."

"Why didn't sensors pick you up?" Malcolm asks.

"Our colony is shielded," Sanuv answers this time, looking reluctant to do so. "To keep people from trespassing. Obviously it didn't work." He narrows his eyes. "We've answered your question. Why don't you answer mine: who are you?"

"Why should I tell you?" Trip snarls. "So you can confirm yer theories? Yeah, we're the ones you attacked last year. He's one of them you stole and revived to preform yer experiments with." He gestures at Malcolm, who mutters Trip's name in a low voice but Trip ignores him. "You got us last time - you won't get him this time. I'll shoot you dead before you even get the chance." So maybe he doesn't get the best scores in training, and maybe his hands are shaking too much for him to be able to even hold the phase pistol steady, but the aliens don't need to know that. "I'd rather die than let him fall into yer hands again."

The air is still, silent. Malcolm's head is bowed and his breathing is deliberately steady, his fists clenched. Trip's knees wobble beneath him and for a horrible moment he thinks they're going to give.

"Sanuv," Lirafik says in a low voice, "I think these people..."

“They’ve met one of the factions before. Yes, it seems like it.”

Their voices become muted and start to echo, as if Trip’s just had his head dunked into a pail of water.

“I didn’t realize they were dragging other species into our conflict! It’s absolutely awful.”

“It is. But it's also reality, Lira.”

“We need to help them. They're tired and injured.”

“He mentioned they were shot at. What if the factions have found us? What if they've led the factions to us?”

“Well, we can't just leave them here-!”

“They don't seem very eager to accept our help. The one with sand-hair has threatened us if we get too close. They're paranoid.”

Trip snorts weakly. Just a couple of hours ago he was saying the same thing about Malcolm. A sudden wave of nausea hits and he groans, legs collapsing awkwardly beneath him and he falls back into the sand, Malcolm's hand on his shoulder, worried voices - familiar and unfamiliar - in his ear.

"You don't trust us," Lirafik is saying, attention on the humans in front of him. "I understand that, if you've had a run in with the factions before." He hesitates a moment before continuing: "Would you like an explanation?"

"That would be lovely," Malcolm says with no hint of his usual British politeness.

Lirafik nods. "Us Tilonians have been at war for... a very long time. There's no government, no clear one, anyway, and there's countless factions fighting to fill that gap. Not all of them are benevolent." A distant look crosses his face that vanishes as quickly as it appeared. "Not all of us are in factions, either. That's our situation. We have to be careful, stay hidden, or else we'll be killed or forced into service in one of the more ruthless ones. That's why we're here, on this planet."

Trip and Malcolm exchange a glance. "That's yer story?" Trip says.

"That's the truth." Lirafik looks vaguely pleading now. "I promise, we're not the ones who took you. Have you not ever encountered a species in space, a group of them hostile, yet another group of them kind?"

And that Trip can't deny. Because he has - Suliban, Xindi; hell, even the Andorians were their enemy at first. The Vulcans had a corrupt government that had to be rebuilt from the ground up. Beside him, Trip can see the gears in Malcolm's head spinning as he figures out the same thing.

We still shouldn't trust them, A voice hisses in the back of his mind. You should shoot them, run for it. That's the impulsive side of him, and he can't listen to it. Not only because his success chance is low, but because Malcolm can't even run at all, not with his leg.

"If you don't come with us willingly," Sanuv deadpans, "then we can just knock you out and drag you back with us."

Trip recoils, as Lirafik yells out a startled, "Sanuv!"

"What?" The black-cloaked alien shrugs. "You're the one who's being so insistent about this. I thought I'd help."

"That's doing the exact opposite!"

Something shifts beside him and Trip looks up at see Malcolm struggling upright, and he jumps to his feet himself, taking Malcolm under the arm. "What're you doing?" he whispers.

Malcolm doesn't answer him. "I believe your explanation," the lieutenant says, addressing the aliens. But Trip can see the tightness in his expression, feeling the slight tremors still wracking his frame occasionally. The way his hand twitches as if to move to his chest.

"Malcolm," Trip says, "are you sure?"

"Am I ever sure about anything?" Malcolm turns to face him. His lips are twisted into a mock-up of a smile, dry and without feeling. "No, I'm not. But we're outnumbered, injured, and I don't think we really have much choice in the matter. Our shuttlepod is still in need of repair and Enterprise won't be back for two days, minimum."

The thought gives Trip an idea. A long-shot, but he tries anyway. "D'you have any engineerin' supplies to help us fix our pod?" he asks Lirafik.

The Tilonian shakes his head, looking genuinely regretful. "I'm sorry. We can't spare any."

Trip purses his lips. “Our ship’s comin’ back in about two days,” he says “We weren’t able to get our emergency beacon workin’ but they’ll be scannin’ for us. Our bio-signs. They won’t leave without us.” He’s known Archer long enough to be certain of this.

An uneasy glance is shared between the aliens, perhaps at the prospect of having others invade whatever “colony” of theirs they keep talking of. Trip wonders if they're just as apprehensive about being found out as Trip is about being led into unfamiliar territory. Lirafik eventually nods. “We can bring you back to your crashed vessel when the time comes if that's what you want.”

"We keep our weapons," Malcolm adds. He watches out of the corner of his eye as the three aliens - perhaps they're soldiers of some sort, Trip thinks - shift on their feet. "They're on stun."

“Very well,” Sanuv hisses. Then, with a dramatic flick of his cloak, he starts back towards their vehicle.

Lirafik moves to Malcolm, maybe to help him, but the Lieutenant takes an unsteady step back and nearly stumbles, and Trip has to grab him. How'd the bastard already forget about his broken leg? He slings Malcolm's arm around his shoulders again, takes him around the waist. His broken fingers throb in protest and that damn pressure in his lower chest has returned but he doesn't let any of it show.

"May I ask your name?" Lirafik asks. He hovers closeby, not quite in their personal space. "And your species, if you're comfortable sharing. You look similar to us but I've never seen you before."

Trip hesitates before answering. "I'm Trip. This is Malcolm." He doesn't add more than that. "We're human."

"Not from this region of space, I take it?"

"We're visitors," Malcolm answers through gritted teeth.

The disoriented men are led over to the vehicle which bears somewhat of a resemblance to an early twenty-first century hummer car with the back end of a pickup truck - which is where the soldiers clamber into - the doors heavily reinforced as an obvious precaution against harsh storms of sand, and windows made of glass as thick as a shuttlepod's. A strange glow emits from where the engine is. Were the situation not so tedious, Trip would have loved to take a look at the inner workings of the thing.

Malcolm’s broken leg hits the lower part of the door frame as he’s climbing in, resulting in a small outcry of pain which has the soldiers, who have clambered into the back, whirling around. In a voice too low for the translator, Lirafik says something, and they look away.

“Need some painkiller?” Trip asks.

Screwing his eyes shut, Malcolm shakes his head. “I’ll be fine.”

“Malcolm, that’s gotta hurt-”

“I said I’m fine, Commander.”

The harsh tone causes Trip to draw back, and Malcolm heaves a sigh.

“I’m sorry, Trip. I’m just… this isn’t the most- er, I’m not very comfortable here.”

Trip has enough common sense to realise that Malcolm doesn't really mean it in a literal sense. Trip is having a hard time, too, apprehension crawling up his throat, tension in every inch of his body. While there is a sense of understanding between them and the aliens, there's no trust. They're still unfamiliar. No, scratch that, they're familiar - not in a good way. His mind beginning to drift, Trip stares out the window, tries not to think about that time so many months ago, tries not to think about his friend, bruised and bloody; feeling Malcolm's heart stop beneath his fingers, oh god, he's killed his best friend, he's killed him again -

Trip is shaken out of it as the vehicle begins to move. He feels something squeeze his hand, and he looks down, eyebrow going up when he catches Malcolm’s fingers laced with his own. Not that he’s displeased.

“You were drifting away there,” Malcolm says in a low, concerned voice. He's looking away.

“Thanks,” Trip whispers.

Neither man makes a move to separate. Contended, they sit in the back of the alien vehicle, hand in hand – and they keep each other grounded.

Chapter Text

The journey across the sandy wasteland is made in silence for the most part. Malcolm keeps glancing over his shoulder at the shuttlepod slowly fading into the distance, frowning, and there's a trace of confusion on his face though for what Trip can't be sure of, and he doesn't ask. He's too busy concentrating on not jumping out of his skin at every little noise. Certainly, the circumstances warrant a bit of wariness, but this is starting to get ridiculous. He tries to distract himself by running through an assortment of engineering specifications in his head, reciting a chapter of the warp engine handbook just for the hell of it, but the concussion is still affecting him and he finds himself trailing off after every second sentence with no clue how it ends.

Then Lirafik speaks up and Trip startles again.

"Sorry." The alien looks apologetic. "I just wanted to ask, you mentioned you were shot at earlier, right?"

"Yes," Malcolm answers. "Our sensors picked up some... readings, just before we were fired on."

Sanuv whirls around briefly, his expression unreadable. before he turns back to steer the vehicle. Lirafik's eyes widen. "I see. Did you get a look at them beyond sensor readings? Ship schematics?"

Trip shares a glance with Malcolm. Malcolm shakes his head.

Turning back around in his seat, Lirafik begins to converse with his partner in low tones, their translator apparently cut off as Trip can't understand what's being said. He frowns. He doesn't exactly like being left in the dark like this, and he's sure Malcolm doesn't enjoy it either.

When Lirafik looks back at them again, it's with a lopsided smile that shows lingering touches of unease behind it. "I understand you're still anxious," he tells them. "Especially given the... regrettably traumatic experience you had first meeting our species. I don't know if there's much I can do other to assuage your worries other than give you my word that we are most certainly not allied with the ones you originally met."

Trip opens his mouth, wants to retort with an unkind, your word isn't worth anything. Malcolm speaks over him, however, uttering a genuine-sounding "Thank you," that has Trip looking around at him in surprise. The lieutenant's jaw is clenched, his eyes staring stoically forward.

A minor windstorm picks up. The small vehicle bears it without so much of a hitch, but they must go over a rock or something because there's a sudden bump and Trip reflexively reaches out for something to grab onto and ends up jarring his broken fingers. He cries out unintentionally and suddenly there are three pairs of eyes on him - then two, because Sanuv is driving - and Malcolm is rummaging through their supplies, mumbles something about painkiller which ends in Trip declining a hypospray. He doesn't need it, it's not like he's never broken a finger before.

"We have a doctor at the colony," Lirafik says after a moment. "There will likely be some physiological differences but it's better than nothing."

And for all the apprehension they still hold, neither of them can turn down the offer. The fact is that they're still injured, Malcolm still unable to walk and Trip having to monitor his own breathing, still dealing with the throbbing at the back of his skull. They need proper medical care.

Even if Malcolm looks ready to protest at the mere implication that he's not at his one-hundred-percent best. Which he isn't, but try telling the stubborn lieutenant that to his face.

Something shiny catches Trip's eye and he turns his focus to the front window. There in the distance he can see the soft gold glow of lights in uneven intervals, and the top of some kind of radio tower peeking out over the horizon. "Is that it?" he asks. He tries to remember how long it took to get here, gauge the distance between here and the shuttlepod, but his brain is as unresponsive as ever.

"It is," Sanuv replies curtly.

They approach a gate, and the vehicle slows but doesn’t stop completely, and another alien with longer dark hair begins to jog alongside the driver’s window. She – Trip assumes they're a she – converses quickly with Sanuv. Her gaze flickers briefly to Trip and Malcolm but it’s unknown if she ever mentions the wide-eyed humans sitting in the back.

The gate opens; the vehicle picks up speed once more and enters the alien colony.

It’s clear from the first glance that the buildings were made from parts of a starship – and not the kind that was meant to be converted, either, like Terra Nova’s settlement was. These buildings are clunky and jagged and were put together in a rush. Most of them have all sorts of metals built into their structures. Trip’s heart skips a beat when he catches that familiar orange shade covering an entire wall of one building. Unconsciously, he shuffles closer to Malcolm.

The vehicle continues at a constant slow speed down the wide dirt road. A handful of aliens bustle about, none of them paying any heed to the car passing by.

They turn a corner and Trip realizes abruptly the layout has changed. This street is organized and was obviously built with prior thought: the structures are even, made of the same materials all around, and do not look like they may topple if the slightest breeze hit them.

“I know it’s not much to look at,” Lirafik pipes up, speaking for the first time since the dust storm in the wasteland, “but it’s kept us… safe, for the past two years.”

“Safe?” Trip echoes.

Lirafik nods solemnly. “The war I told you about,” he says, ignoring the plaintive warning look Sanuv is shooting in his direction. “Our species has a history of conflict. We're unable to decide which form of government to keep, and it causes a great deal of infighting. There are those of us-” he gestures vaguely “-who simply wish to live a peaceful life. We don’t have a faction. We don’t engage in conflict.”

“Unless we have to,” Sanuv cuts in.

“...Unless we have to,” Lirafik repeats, desolation and reluctance in his tone.

Trip glances between the two aliens. One peace-lovin’ optimist, he thinks, and one trigger happy pessimist. Sounds familiar. Though, since the Xindi war, Trip isn't sure the whole "peace-loving" thing really describes him anymore; he isn't sure it ever really did, thinking about it. He looks at Lirafik for a little while longer, watches the alien close his eyes and take a deep breath, and he feels that anxiety and distrust in his gut give way to something more... charitable.

The vehicle comes to a halt in front of a narrow two-story building with a pile of junk out front and a roof which has seen better days. Trip eyes it, not trusting it to hold up when they walk under it. Malcolm passes him the bag of supplies they took from the shuttlepod. Trip takes it, then holds out his hand to help Malcolm out of the car, but the Lieutenant waves him off. "Give me a minute." Then, obviously noting Trip's worries expression, offers a reassuring smile. "It doesn't hurt-" Yeah, that's a lie if Trip's ever heard one, "-but I'd rather not you be forced to be my crutch."

Trip's about to reply, tell him he's not forced, but realises that Malcolm isn't exactly wrong. Not only that, but he wonders if it has to do with the lieutenant's pride, his independence, along with worrying about Trip's sake. So Trip nods reluctantly and lingers by the car. He notices the soldiers in the back have disappeared; he can't figure out when that happened.

Sanuv goes up to the front door of the building while Lirafik remains behind, shuffling awkwardly in front of Trip and Malcolm. "Doctor Palja is our best doctor here. He was studying interspecies biology before the Zainif faction…” He trails off, clearing his throat. “He should be able to help you.”

“Thanks,” Trip says, doing his best to sound like he means it.

The door opens and a Tilonian so tall he must slouch to get through the doorway peers out. His hair is the brightest shade of red Trip has ever seen. “What is it?”

“Patients.” Sanuv steps back and waves an arm at Trip and Malcolm.

Palja stares at them, opens his mouth as if to ask a question then decides against it, and with a sniff ducks back through the doorway, back into the house. He returns a few moments later with an enlarged hand scanner and runs it up and down first Trip, then Malcolm. “What is this species?”

“Human,” Lirafik provides before Trip can even open his mouth.

“Human.” Palja grunts and inputs something into his scanner, then shoves it in his pocket. “I believe I can help them. Follow me.”

Suddenly, a blur of red and green rushes by, accompanied by a strange pig-like squeal. Trip whips out his phase pistol, glancing around wildly for the target.

His eyes land on a child barely as high as his hip. She has her arms wrapped around Lirafik’s legs – the only part of him she can reach. She doesn’t seem to notice the weapon trained on her.

Doctor Palja does, however. Before Trip can make sense of what’s happening, a dull pain shoots up his arm, the phase pistol is wrenched from his grasp, and the next thing he knows, he’s lying in the dusty alien ground and there are voices shouting, echoing strangely and painfully in his ears. He scrunches his eyes shut and moans. After a bit, the voices become more clear.

“Trip?” Malcolm questions tentatively from somewhere unseen. Where is he? A note of panic crawls up Trip's throat before he remembers Malcolm's still in the car. Unable to move. Probably feeling useless.

Probably worried Trip hasn't responded.

I’m alright, he tries to say. What comes out is, “ungh.”

Then there's a pair of bright green eyes in his vision, inhuman eyes, and the blurry figure slowly merges into Lirafik. The alien frowns down at him, holds out a hand. "Are you okay?"

"Will be in a minute." Trip accepts the offer and staggers to his feet. A conversation is going on nearby, about him but not including him.

“I wasn’t aware they had weapons.” Palja's accusation is directed at Lirafik and Sanuv.

“They would not come with us otherwise,” Lirafik tries to explain even as he keeps a hand on Trip's arm to steady him.

“That one could have killed Eya!”

“Doctor Palja, please understand. They've had a run in with a faction before…”

Trip shakes his head to clear it then stumbles over to Malcolm and nearly crashes right into the vehicle. The lieutenant rests a hand on his shoulder. His face is twisted in concern. "He hit you pretty hard, Commander. Honestly, I didn't even see it coming. How are you feeling?"

“Been better,” Trip answers. Being hit definitely didn't help his concussion, but at least the pain is fading now. His eyes drift over to the alien girl, who is now standing halfway hidden behind Palja’s legs. Her hair is the same shade as Palja’s – presumably she’s his daughter. She’s staring right back at him. “I can’t believe I almost shot a kid.”

“She surprised me too," Malcolm admits.

The argument between the aliens is brief yet heated. Eventually, Palja relents with a gruff sigh, and turns to his daughter, instructing her to return inside. She nods but hesitates a moment longer, still apparently engrossed by Trip, then darts through the front door.

“Sorry,” Trip apologizes sheepishly now that he can get a word in. He meets Palja’s eyes only for a split second, then ducks away. Talk about a horrible first impression. “I didn’t realize… she surprised me… um, y’all have kids here?” It comes out before he can stop himself.

Palja raises an eyebrow, looks over at Sanuv and Lirafik, and scoffs. “You don’t have children where you come from?”

Trip’s cheeks take on a pink tinge. “No, of course we do. I just, uh…” He didn’t realize it until that little girl came barrelling through the door, but a part of him still feared this was all some elaborate ruse, that they were being taken to some military base, that Malcolm would have to relive the hell the Tilonians put him through last year.

Palja waves a hand. “Just don’t do it again, I'll have no qualms about kicking the both of you out.” He tosses the phase pistol in Trip’s direction; it lands at his feet in a cloud of dust.

Gingerly, Trip picks it up, rubs the sand from the crevices, then re-holsters it. “Thanks.” He supposes it’s a sign of trust that he’s been given it back. A trust that really isn’t deserved, he broods, especially since he damn near shot a stranger’s child.

A trust he hasn’t reciprocated.

I don’t have to reciprocate anything, he thinks harshly, but the thought is quickly swallowed up by guilt. Being the same species as the ones who kidnapped Malcolm means nothing. They could have easily left them out in the wasteland to die, just as Sanuv said. They could have killed them on the spot – probably would have if they were indeed Malcolm’s initial kidnappers.

But they didn’t.

A burst of nausea tears Trip from his deep contemplation. He leans against the car and holds a hand to his chest as his sharp intake of breath jars his rib - how did he even forget about that? When it passes he straightens up just in time to see Palja take a step closer.

"Both of you are clearly injured," the doctor says. "I should think you wouldn't want to waste time. Do you need help walking inside?" His tone is slightly softer when directed at Malcolm, and Trip, for some reason, finds that hilarious.

"I can help him," Trip offers. He takes Malcolm's arm and slings it over his shoulder, hauls him out of the car as gently as possible, but they barely even get to the point of being upright before nausea rolls over Trip once more and he stumbles awkwardly, and for a moment he's fearful he's going to collapse. Then there's movement out of the corner of his eye and some of the weight is lifted from his shoulders, and he turns his neck to see Sanuv on the other side of Malcolm. The black-cloaked alien stares back at him impassively, raises an eyebrow. Trip's lip twitches. "Thanks."

Sanuv doesn't reply.

It turns out to be a quaint little house on the inside, much cleaner and done-up than on the outside, even if it doesn’t have quite the same warm, welcoming atmosphere as Trip’s own home back in Florida. On the right lies what passed as a living room: two worn brown couches facing a small hand-made wood table. On the left is a kitchen, and between the two rooms is a countertop. A row of medical supplies is in one corner, while a container of tongs and spatulas sits in another. There's a staircase against the closest wall. All in all, it doesn't look anything like Trip would expect a doctor's home to look like. It just looks normal.

Not that he has much time to take it in, anyway. No sooner have they set Malcolm down on the couch than does Trip collapse right next to him, eyes closed, refusing to give into his body's desire to breathe heavily. The world tilts endlessly around him. He feels Malcolm's hand against his arm and can almost sense the worry radiating off the man. "I'm okay," Trip mutters.

From somewhere close by, Palja snorts. "Far from it." A clicking sound, the hum of a scanner working, and Trip opens his eyes. "Both of you are dehydrated and bearing numerous minor injuries on top of the obvious ones. You-" he scrutinizes Trip "-are suffering from moderate brain trauma, have three broken fingers, and that rib was once no doubt merely cracked but has since shifted into a fracture." Ah, that explains why breathing has become more of a struggle. Trip lays a hand against his lower chest and winces.

Palja takes Malcolm's leg with gentle, experienced hands and lifts it so that it rests on a stool he's dragged over; he frowns down at it. "The bones in your legs are similar to ours. You've broken one of the lower ones, I'm not sure what your species calls it." He moves the scanner up Malcolm's body. "You appear to have sprained your wrist and have first degree burns on your hands, and also seem to be dealing with a minor head injury, though not as serious as your friend here."

"Wait." Trip sits up. "Malcolm, have you also had a concussion all this time?"

Malcolm glances away. "It just felt like a normal headache."

Trip gapes at him. Then he buries his face in one hand and groans. "For the love of god, Malcolm, why didn't you say anythin’?"

When the lieutenant doesn't respond, Palja takes to filling the silence. "You were well to brace this early on," he says, continuing to inspect Malcolm's leg. "I'll be able to give you a proper cast soon, we're fortunate we have similar anatomy. We'll start bone regrowth treatments and go from there. In the meantime, I'm going to give you both something for the head injuries, as well as properly splint your fingers.“ He looks at Trip now. “There's nothing I can do for your rib aside from recommend you rest, we simply don't have the technology for advanced bone healing treatments." Palja narrows his eyes. "I don't believe I ever caught your name."

"Trip," Trip answers simply.

Palja nods. "I'll be back in a moment." Then he stands up, returning just seconds later with a large bag under his arm.

Both men are injected with hyposprays of something that makes their vision go slightly blurry for a few minutes. When it clears, Palja gets started first on Trip's fingers, and Trip keeps his gaze focused solely on the doctor's careful yet dispassionate work. He doesn't look at Malcolm. Bastard was hiding injuries all this time; why hadn't Trip seen it?

Hypocrite, a voice hisses at the back of his mind. Weren't you doing the same thing?

Trip bites his bottom lip.

Palja moves on to Malcolm. Examines his wrist, wraps it in bandages, then begins to affix some kind of contraption around Malcolm's leg, presumably the cast he mentioned though Trip thinks it looks more like a torture device. Metallic and skeletal, with a thick, solid base at the sole of his foot that Palja says will allow him to walk if he's careful. With the help of some painkiller, Malcolm relaxes a bit.

When he's done, Palja stands up and places his hands on his hips. "Well, then. Perhaps now someone can tell me how exactly you came to acquire these injuries. And while you're at it," Palja directs his gaze over his shoulder at Lirafik and Sanuv, "maybe you two can tell me how you stumbled upon them in the first place?"

"We crashed our pod," Trip mutters after a beat.

"They were shot down." Sanuv's sudden interjection into the conversation makes Trip jump. Uncannily similar to Malcolm, the black-cloaked Tilonian somehow managed to make himself blend seamlessly into his surroundings. "They tell us they weren't able to identify who it was."

Palja's eyes narrow, flicking between Trip and Malcolm. He looks suddenly wary. "Shot down? Why were you so close to this planet anyway?"

"We had no idea anyone was down here," Malcolm answers evenly. "We come from a ship of explorers. We were simply curious about the ruins out in the wasteland." He seems to consider something. "Would you happen to have any idea who it was that shot at us?"

All the air is sucked from the room. Sanuv's face darkens, Lirafik looks down at his feet. Palja clasps his hands behind his head and mumbles something inaudible. Annoyance at the lieutenant momentarily forgotten, Trip gives him a wide-eyed stare, but now it's Malcolm's turn to pay him no heed. His jaw is locked, eyes determined and defiant.

"The factions," Lirafik utters finally. "But we can't be certain which one."

Malcolm nods. "That's why you've been so tense. That's what you meant earlier, isn't it? You think we led them to you."

"Safety is a fickle thing for us," Sanuv all but spits. He moves forward but is stopped by Lirafik's hand on his arm. "We don't typically risk it for strange aliens who fall out of the sky! That distrust you show us? The feeling is mutual."

"That's enough." Lirafik says firmly. Sanuv groans and storms off outside, hands stuffed in his pockets, as Lirafik looks at Trip and Malcolm with apologies in his eyes if not in his words. "You were injured and in need of help. I don't regret it. Neither does Sanuv, even if he doesn't seem like it. He just..." Lirafik trails off and sighs. "Well, that's not for me to tell."

Trip clenches his fist and dares to stand. Surprisingly, his legs hold his weight. "We didn't lead them to you," he says. Not on purpose, he adds in his mind.

Lirafik offers a smile. "I know." Then he cranes his neck, looks past Trip at Doctor Palja who has taken to leaning against his kitchen counter. "Doctor, if I'm not mistaken, I believe your spare room is available?"

"What?" Palja's head shoots up. "You're seriously leaving me stuck with them?"

"They have nowhere else to go. Their flitter was ruined in the crash and their main ship isn't back for another- two days, was it? And it's not like Sanuv and I can take anyone in. We only have one room."

Palja exhales heavily and runs a hand across his forehead ridges. His face sinks into a scowl. "I don't like this." He glances up, then sighs again. "Fine. But I want it on the record that I was against this idea."

A ghost of a smile crosses Lirafik's lips. "Noted. Would you like some help?"

"Not needed. Go after your boyfriend, make sure he's not destroying the shooting range."

Lirafik nods, and with a final goodbye to Trip and Malcolm, slips out the door.

The two men are led by Palja up the rather rickety stairs, past a set of tightly locked doors - one with a sign on the door in colourful, unfamiliar script - before the doctor opens the last door on the right, revealing a bedroom with two beds set up. "You can stay in here," he tells them. "Washroom's across the hall. If you need anything... let me know." The words seem a struggle for him to get out. For just a moment just before he leaves, Trip swears he sees something cross Palja's face, but it's gone before he can get a grip on it.

The door shuts.

Malcolm collapses heavily on the bed nearest the window, taking the weight off his leg. "Doctor was right," he marvels apparently to himself. "That... didn't even hurt much."

Hurt. Right. Malcolm is hurt.

And he didn't tell me.

Trip flings their stuff into a corner and leans against the wall with his arms crossed. He doesn't look up at Malcolm. For a moment the room is silent, heavy with tension.

"You can be angry at me all you want, Commander," Malcolm finally says, "but if I'd told you about my other injuries you wouldn't have let me work on the pod at all."

"Damn right, I wouldn't!" Trip whirls around. "It's bad enough that I, the chief goddamn engineer, was strugglin' to read plain ol' Standard; I didn't need you workin’ yerself to the bone as well! Oh, but look - you did."

"Which is why I didn't say anything!" Malcolm clenches his teeth. "Anyway, you're not exactly in a fit position to judge, sir. Your rib was merely cracked when I checked it on the scanner."

Hypocrite, sings that voice in the back of Trip's mind again, and the engineer feels himself deflate. Legs suddenly like jelly, he falls onto his own bed and leans forward, ignoring how the previously mentioned rib protests, runs his hands through his hair. It feels gross, greasy. He wishes he could have a proper shower. "Let's just get some rest. We've had a long day."

Malcolm shifts on his bed; there's the sound of air sucking between teeth, presumably when he moves his leg wrong, and Trip resists the immediate urge to look up. "Indeed," Malcolm says stiffly. "Would you prefer we take shifts?" When Trip shakes his head, Malcolm nods. "Very well. I'll see you in the morning, then, Commander."

Despite the heaviness of his eyelids, the bone-deep ache of exhaustion in his body, Trip doesn't sleep well that night. And from the constant tossing and turning and softly muttered words coming from across the room, Malcolm doesn't either.

Chapter Text

The ground sways beneath him, catching him off guard, and he’s only just able to raise an arm to catch himself against the wall before he bangs his head against it. With a grunt, Trip pushes himself forward. He can’t afford even a second just standing around. He has to get to engineering. He keeps going, ignoring the alarm bells in his head that are getting increasingly louder. His team need help.

He’s almost there when the wall blows away suddenly, but instead of the vast void of space, Trip’s eyes land on open water.

And the dark-haired figure struggling to stay atop the waves.

Trip lurches awake with a gasp, thin sheets drenched in sweat. He’s disorientated at first, unsure of where he is and terrified at the foreign surroundings, but with a few deep, shaking breaths, he manages to calm down and slowly everything comes back. The shuttle, the aliens, the doctor.

They’re safe. Well, safe as can be given the circumstances.

A small groan drags Trip out of his thoughts. He glances across the room at Malcolm, who has gotten himself tangled up in the bedsheets. He seems to be in the clutches of a nightmare of his own, twisting, mumbling incomprehensibly. Trip swings his legs over the bed but halts before actually standing as he recalls the argument they had last night. There's a pang of something in his chest; remorse maybe. He wants to go over and wake his friend but finds himself rooted to the spot.

Instead he sits and waits for Malcolm to wake up, and when he does the two lock eyes, and neither man says a word.

Doctor Palja greets them with a narrowed-eyed glance. "I'm not sure what you usually do for sustenance, but I hope this will suffice." The plates he holds contain sliced yellow fruits which seem to be glowing and slices of bread, home-baked if Trip's ever seen it. It reminds him of his mother's specialty nut bread and he feels a brief pang of longing. "After you've eaten I want to check you over if that's all right." By the tone of his voice it doesn't sound like they even have a choice.

"Thank you," Malcolm mumbles, awkwardly seating himself on one of the tall stools in front of the count. There's three of them, and the middle one is taken by Palja's daughter Eya who is gorging herself on her own breakfast like she's never eaten in her life. Seeing Malcolm, she looks up and grins.

"Hey, aliens! You feeling better?"

Malcolm gapes at her, looking rather flustered. "Erm, I suppose."

"That's good. Sleep helps when you don't feel good, you know." Eya nods solemnly then turns to Trip. "Are you not sitting down? Dad says it's rude to eat standing up. You should sit."

So Trip sits down on her other side and stares incredulously at his breakfast. Malcolm is taking small, uninterested nibbles, seemingly oblivious to Palja's glare as the doctor hovers off in the corner. Trip offers him a weak smile and bites into the bread. It's good. He wolfs down the rest, not realising just how hungry he was, then starts on the fruit. It tastes like a weird mix between a strawberry and a pear and something else he can't identify.

There's silence between him and Malcolm, but the room as a whole certainly isn't quiet as Eya takes to filling it with questions she can't seem to contain. "What are your names? What planet do you come from, what's it called? Where is it? I heard you have a spaceship, where is it? Do you have rykfori on your planet? Where are your head-ridges?"

"Eya," Palja warns lowly, but Trip just chuckles and does his best to sate her curiosity. She pronounces Trip's name weirdly (it sounds more like "Tri-ap"), but surprisingly she gets Malcolm's name correct in a near-perfect imitation of his accent. Her eyes grow wide when she learns how far away Earth is and almost take up her whole head when she hears about Enterprise. What little Trip dares to tell, anyway, without giving away any specifications that might lead to danger. Trip learns the name of the glowing yellow fruit and Eya learns about differing appearances in aliens.

Malcolm sits in silence the whole time.

When their breakfast is finished, Palja shoos Eya to her room and leads Trip and Malcolm to the couch, raising an eyebrow when he sees Malcolm's almost full plate contrasting against Trip's polished clean one. Trip gives the lieutenant the best disappointed commander expression he can manage. But Malcolm isn't looking at him. Dammit, can the man stop being so stubborn?

Palja runs a med-scanner over both of them. Trip's concussion has dwindled into a mere dull throb in the back of his head, and when he picks up a PADD he discovers with delight that he can read properly again. His fingers are healing nicely beneath the splints. "All in all," Palja finishes, putting his med-scanner away, "I don't detect any changes for the worse in either of you." He looks at Malcolm. "The bone regrowth is slow-going. You probably won't be able to walk very well on that leg without the cast, but your wrist is doing fine and the burns are already fading."

Trip can't help himself. "What about his concussion?" he asks with more bite to his words than he intended.

Whether Palja notices or not he can't be certain of. "The trauma to his brain was considerably milder than the condition you were in," the doctor states coolly. It isn't the answer Trip wanted. He isn't exactly sure what he wanted, actually. His only goal was to hurt Malcolm - and he succeeded, if his barely-concealed flinch was anything to go by.

And Trip feels terrible for it. Sure, he's angry, but he's being petty and hypocritical. He's a grown man, for fuck's sake, and he's acting like a child! It's not like Malcolm was even wrong earlier.

"If I told you about my other injuries you wouldn't have let me work on the pod at all."

Trip glances at his friend out of the corner of his eye. "Sorry," he whispers.

Malcolm twitches but gives no other indication he's heard.

The creak of a door opening makes Trip jump. Dark, shaggy hair and pale green eyes; Lirafik peers inside with a small smile. "Hey. Morning." He steps inside and Sanuv is trailing right behind him. "Hope you slept all right. I know the conditions weren't ideal-"

"I'm offended at that implication," Palja deadpans.

"You know I don't mean it like that."

"We slept fine," Malcolm cuts in. "Your doctor has done some impressive work. Thank you." He nods at Palja who inclines his head slightly in response.

A beat of silence passes. Trip feels like he's missed his cue to say something, and opens his mouth but someone else talks over him.

"Well." Sanuv clasps his hands together. "Let's not beat around the bush, then. This isn't exactly a social call." He peers down at Trip and Malcolm. "We need to figure out what we're going to do about you."

"What about us, specifically?" Trip asks warily, a sense of unease crawling across his skin.

Sanuv's bright eyes bore into him. "You recall yesterday I said that the concept of safety is fickle here. We're all on constant edge, our cloaking technology only does so much against the factions with more advanced technology. You being here, especially since you didn't willingly choose to land here, jeopardizes that safety we grasp onto, and as head of security it's my job to think about these things."

Trip frowns. "And I told you that we didn't lead whoever it was here. Why d'you think they'd be after you, anyway?"

"Because I don't believe in coincidences." Sanuv's voice is suddenly hushed and for a moment Trip gets a sense of deja vu; swears Malcolm once said something similar.

And then another thought crosses Trip's mind, this one darker, sending goosebumps up his arms and his breathing hitches. He senses Malcolm shift beside him. Somehow, though, he manages to return back to himself. I'm not thinkin' about that, he vows. "What kind of harm would we do, anyway?" He forces himself to speak. "We're already here."

"A great deal," Sanuv says cryptically at the same time Lirafik shakes his head and insists, "It's not just about that. There's your safety to consider, too."

Trip spares a glance at Malcolm and despite the metaphorical rift still between them he can tell they're thinking the same thing. "I'd feel a lot safer, personally, if we got in contact with our ship. They should be within long-range communication distance by now, but our hand-held communicators can't reach that far and our shuttlepod's systems are pretty fried. If you have anythin'..."

"Out of the question." Sanuv storms forward and stops just a few feet from them, fists clenched. "That is the exact opposite of ensuring everyone's safety."

"I know how to encrypt messages," Malcolm explains, sitting up. "With the Commander's help, we can just make it look like normal white noise if anyone happened to be preforming passive scans."

At that, Lirafik and Sanuv exchange a look of their own. "I'm sorry," Lirafik says, "but our communication array has been out of commission for some time now."

"I can try an' help," Trip offers after a moment's hesitation. "I'm the chief engineer aboard our ship. If there's a problem, maybe I can give fixin' it a shot?" When no one says anything, he can't help the desperation that creeps into his voice. "Please."

Deep down, after all, he is still battling constant anxiety, and he doesn't have to ask to know it's the same for Malcolm.

"If you'd like," Lirafik sighs. "But I'm not sure; you're still recovering, aren't you? Would you be able to preform your duties with your fingers broken as they are?"

Trip looks down at them, then back up at Lirafik and smirks slightly. "These? I've dealt with an overloading warp engine in worse conditions. A communications array shouldn't be any problem."

"As your current, temporary doctor-" Palja speaks up for the first time in what seems like ages, Trip almost forgot he was there "-I object to this."

"Please," Trip says again. "I swear I won't do anythin' too strenuous. And you gave me that shot for the concussion, right? All I have is a headache now." Malcolm raises an incredulous eyebrow and Trip is hit with the irony of it all, chews on his lip, but doesn't voice it. "If it doesn't work out, I'll come back." The what ifs start to form in his head - if he doesn't manage to fix it, it means either waiting for Enterprise to get into closer range or taking another crack at the shuttlepod's communication systems. Which would mean going back out into the wasteland. Which would mean being exposed again. Which would mean...

He's drawn from his thoughts by Sanuv's reluctant agreement to the plan. "As long as you're the one taking him, Lira," he concedes. "There are other matters that I have to focus on."

"Of course." Lirafik smiles and steps towards Trip. "We can go now if you'd like. Do you have any supplies? We have tools of our own, obviously, but in my experience, engineers typically have their own toolkits."

Trip has one. It's currently buried beneath a number of boxes and rubble in the shuttlepod. "Yer stuff'll have to do." He gets to his feet and there's no dizziness that accompanies the action, no nausea. Just the faint thudding in the back of his head. He looks back at Malcolm. "Ah, you gonna come too, Malcolm?"

"I think I'll stay here," the lieutenant says. "I'm not sure I'll be much use."

Once again he's right, but Trip is still hesitant about leaving him alone. As if reading his mind, Malcolm meets his eyes for the first time since yesterday and offers a nod. "I'll be fine here, I promise." His voice is tight with something indescribable. Trip tries not to dwell on it as he follows Lirafik out the door.

For the most part, communication array is remarkably similar to what Trip is used to. Even with tools he isn't familiar with, he finishes the first half hour of repairs without a hitch, and that’s when the alien technology rears its ugly head.

“Damn,” Trip swears as the connection fizzles out for the third time. He tosses the alien's equivalent of a hyperspanner in the toolkit and falls back on his heels, bringing a hand to his forehead. A slight headache is developing. Maybe he should take a break.

Lirafik peers around the corner and frowns. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Trip reassures. He hauls himself upright and gathers up the tools he borrowed for the task. “As far as I can tell, there’s somethin’ wrong with the connection between the main alignment grid and the carrier wave amplifiers. The circuits are warped. See here-" He points with his bound index and middle fingers as Lirafik leans over his shoulder. "It’s not an easy fix, but it is doable.”

“I see.” Lirafik nods, then slowly shakes his head. “Actually, I don’t see. I’m sorry. I never quite understood all of this engineering talk. Sanuv knows better than I do.”

Trip nods, moving on to the next panel and prying it open. “You two seem pretty close,” he observes. He finds comfort in small talk, something which always annoyed Malcolm. Malcolm; he wonders how he's doing alone in Palja's house, and then feels a brief pang of guilt over leaving him even though he knows it was necessary. Not only that - he's been shunning the lieutenant over petty reasons.

Well, it's not like he's doing anything much different, a rebellious voice slithers into his mind.

“I should say the same about you and Malcolm,” Lirafik's voice comes in sudden clarity and Trip jumps, scrambling for context before remembering that he was the one who initiated the conversation. “You care for him deeply.”

“’course I do. He’s my friend.” The panel comes off without any trouble. “An’ he was hurt before. It was partially my fault. I’m determined not to let that happen again.”

A guilty look crosses Lirafik’s face. “I understand. Your protective streak is admirable, Trip. I implore you to just be mindful that you don't suffocate your friend with it.”

A sudden bout of anger - protectiveness running beneath it - wells up in him. If the plasma torch in Trip’s hand was turned on, he has no doubt he would have pointed it right at the alien. “An’ jus’ where do you get off tellin’ me to ‘be mindful’, huh?” he snaps as he whirls around. “I don’t really know you, do I? You don’t know me. You have no right ta be talkin’ to me like an old pal, givin’ me advice like that, ‘specially after what you did to my friend.”

That's the wrong thing to say. It's clear Lirafik's darkening face, the way he shrinks back with yet a defiant set to his shoulders at the same time. “I did not do a thing to you, or your friend,” he remarks coldly. “I apologize if I overstepped. But please do not put me in the same category of those horrible people simply because I'm of the same species. You're right, I don't know you very well. But I am familiar with what your friend went through, because I experienced it as well."

Trip’s rebuttal becomes lodged in his throat. “What?"

The Tilonian mutters something untranslatable and sinks against the wall. A moment passes, which soon stretches into a full minute of uncomfortable silence.

“I know what faction made your poor friend suffer,” Lirafik finally says. “The Ostaian faction. Ruthless “scientists”, though they hardly deserve to call themselves such. They're infamous for their work on... live subjects. I was pulled into their ranks, but not as a soldier." He sighs, the implication obvious. “Sanuv was the soldier. He hated it. He got me out.”

Images, memories, flip rapidly through Trip's brain. He feels sick. "I didn't know."

“No, you didn’t.” Lirafik’s expression is oddly blank. “We're not your enemy here, Trip. Sanuv may seem short-tempered and distrustful, but so are you, and we each have a right to be so. A lot of us have been through exactly what I’ve been through; what your friend has been through. We have children here. Families. We are a broken people and will probably remain as such until the end of time. Don't make assumptions before you have all the facts. I would have thought, as a self-proclaimed explorer of cultures and worlds, you'd know this."

Trip's hand curls around the plasma torch. He's trembling slightly. "I'm sorry," he says.

Lirafik deflates. He takes a step forward and outstretches a hand as if to place it on Trip's shoulder but decides against it last minute. "No need to apologise." Then he smirks. "You remind me a bit of Sanuv, actually, when you got angry just now."

"That's a compliment, right?" Trip ventures tentatively.

"Why would it be an insult?" Lirafik laughs. "I didn't ask, how's the progress on the communications array? You can take a break if you want."

A break actually sounds like a good idea right now. A little time for the pounding in his head to ease up, breathing room to let the rest of his residual tension melt away. "Sure. Hey, uh, would it be possible to get an extra set of hands maybe?" he asks. "It'd go a lot faster."

Lirafik nods. "Of course. Wait here, I'll see who I can find."

Chapter Text

Working together with Lirafik and another Tilonian engineer he can’t pronounce the name of, Trip manages to fix the broken connection in the communications array. However, they discover another setback in their plan to communicate with Enterprise.

“We call it the Gravitational Array,” Lirafik explains, gesturing to the giant tower of metal behind him, the structure Trip thought was a radio tower when they first arrived here. “It's what's blocking our colony from sensors. Working with this planet’s natural gravitational fields, it manipulates them and deters any ships from coming near. Unfortunately, it makes it impossible to send out any sort of communication. I'm sorry, I should have told you.”

Trip is impressed, he is. But he’s also rather annoyed. It means more hoops to jump through, more time spent with these people, and while he’s come to... well, not fully trust them, but they've reached an understanding, all he really wants to do is get in touch with his ship. At least that'll provide some anxiety relief.

“Is there any way to… shut it down?” Trip asks.

Lirafik frowns. “No. Absolutely out of the question. I'm sorry, but the Gravitational Array allows us to remain hidden from factions seeking out the most vulnerable. Shutting it down, even temporarily, is unacceptable.”

Trip expected as much, but it’s still a disappointment.

“However…” A thoughtful look crosses Lirafik’s face. “I have heard of a… gap, of sorts, in the gravitational fields. Communication should be possible there. Sanuv would know more.”

The ride back to Palja’s place is quiet at first. Then, Trip breaks the silence.

“You know,” he begins carefully, “You… don’t have to fight this alone. I’m sure Enterprise would be happy to give you a hand. I mean, we managed to convince the Vulcans we were ready for Spaceflight. Uh - humanoid race, kinda like ours," he adds when Lirafik gives him a puzzled look. "They suppress their emotions and were a right pain in our ass at first, tryin' to tell us what to do and where to go, but... Ah, anyway. Our Cap’n founded an alliance with species that were once buttin’ heads constantly. If you need some help, I'm sure he'd be glad to give it.”

Lirafik smiles and shakes his head. “A very generous offer, but I'll have to decline. Ask anyone here and they'll say the same. It's just far too dangerous, and this isn't your fight in the first place. You shouldn't have to worry about us."

A proud people. Kind people. Another fraction of his wariness cracks, fades away. “Right.” Trip leans back in his seat and takes to watching the passing scenery. Jagged buildings constructed out of warped metal, desert sand staining every surface. Children run and play and laugh and parents scold them when they get too rough. Sometimes they stop and stare at him as they pass. “How long have you been living here?” he finds himself asking.

Lirafik takes his eyes off the road for only a brief moment, meets Trip's and looks thoughtful. “How long? Me, I’ve been here for about eighteen months, but there are some who've been here longer. This colony is nearly three years old, I believe.”

Three years. Three years, living in a hastily construed community that they can’t even leave out of fear for their lives. "That’s a long time," Trip comments while he quashes down the guilt that just won't leave him the fuck alone. He gets it, alright? He should've just listened to his mama and not judged a book by its cover. Or, an alien by their ridges.

Something like that.

“Indeed.” Lirafik’s expression turns sad. “The war, now, that’s been going on for longer. Before I was born, to be sure. I suppose it is just in our nature to disagree with each other.” He pulls the car up next to Palja’s building and switches off the engines. Turning to Trip, he offers a smile and bows his head. “Thank you very much for helping fix our communications array, Trip, despite your injuries. I will do my very best to repay the favour and get you and your friend home.”

“Don’t mention it,” Trip says with a wave of his hand.

They enter the house to a rather strange sight: Malcolm sitting on the floor next to the couch, broken leg stretched out carefully, with his phase pistol in hand, Eya sitting across from him, eyes wide. Trip stops in his tracks and blinks twice to make sure he’s not seeing things.

“…And this is what powers it,” Malcolm is saying, holding up the pistol’s power cell with his pointer finger and thumb. “One has to be very careful with these, they can give you a nasty burn. Always make sure it’s powered off before touching.”

“Awesome!” Eya exclaims. “So, what about the scanny-thingy you have, Malcolm-Alien? How does that work?”

"Malcolm?" Trip asks, regretful of his interruption of the frankly adorable scene. A smile tugs at his lips. "What're you doing?

Malcolm whirls around and his eyes widen. He uses the couch to push himself to his feet, miscalculates something and nearly falls but catches himself at the last minute. "Sir!" he exclaims. "Ah - Sorry, I- She was interested-"

"You've got cool stuff." Eya swoops in for the save. "It's a bit like ours, but it works different, but also the same. Malcolm was showing me." She beams up at him. Then, in a typical child fashion, her focus immediately shifts to Lira and she yells out his name and runs forward in a blur, wraps herself around the Tilonian man's legs. After a brief conversation, Eya runs off to her father in the kitchen and Lirafik sends Trip a reassuring smile.

"Let me get Sanuv from work," he tells the engineer "I'll be right back."

Trip makes his way over to Malcolm. The lieutenant has returned to his tense stance, a stark contrast to the rare openness he was displaying just seconds before. The air suddenly seems thick and Trip resists the compulsion to cough. "I didn't know you were good with kids," he says in an attempt to lighten the mood.

"Oh, um, I'm not. Not really." Malcolm looks down at his boots then back up, not really looking at Trip. "Did you fix the communications array, Commander?"

"Yes," Trip sighs. "But before that, I gotta tell you - I'm not mad." He runs a hand through his hair. "I was. I mean, I still sorta am. But I think I was more worried than anythin' else, Malcolm. An' I know you hate that. I couldn't - can't - help it, though. You hid yer injuries from me because you wanted to get the shuttlepod fixed faster. I can't just ignore that."

The lieutenant relaxes minutely. "To be fair, sir, the feeling's mutual. You were the one working through a more serious concussion. Your rib got worse."

"Yeah, well, maybe we should just accept that we're both stubborn, hypocritical bastards who make horrible decisions."

"Agreed." Malcolm laughs, light and genuine. "Honestly, Trip, I was actually surprised you didn't notice. You're usually a lot more observant than people give you credit for."

Trip shrugs. "Concussion, probably. Could barely keep my own thoughts on the task in front of me." It feels like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders; he's glad to see Malcolm smiling again, no longer stiff and closed-off. "Anyway, back to the communications array. The good news is, we got it workin', and it can do long-range."

"And the bad news?"

Trip folds his arms across his chest. "So, the reason this place is shielded is also the reason why this planet has such crazy gravity. They got some other array hooked up that causes all those fluctuations, hidin' them from scanners. Unfortunately, it also cuts off outgoing communication. They can only receive messages."

"Oh, well that's fantastic," Malcolm drawls. He shuffles his weight and winces when his leg is twisted wrong and decides to drop down on the couch. Trip follows suit with a more careful descent. "So that's that?"

"Not exactly. See, apparently there's this gap in the field or whatever. Lirafik says Sanuv knows more. He's gone to get him."

Malcolm glances at the door. "And we're just to wait here, I suppose."

"Yeah."

"Hey, aliens?" Eya has wandered over again, hands clasped behind her back. "Tri-ap and Malcolm, can you show me more of your cool stuff? Dad says you're an engineer-" her eyes land on Trip, "-like Melev from next door. Can you take apart something and show me like she does?"

Trip looks at Malcolm in a mix of surprised and wonder. Malcolm smirks. "Best to do what she asks, Commander. She's got some rather convincing eyes."

"Of course!" Trip leans towards the small alien girl and grins. "You haven't seen how our scanner works yet, have you? Here, I'll show ya."

They're halfway through Trip's admittedly long-winded explanation - though Eya still seems to absorb every word, bright girl - when Lirafik comes back with Sanuv in tow and they have to put pause on the demonstration, much to Eya's disappointment.

Here's the thing: from the moment he woke up, Malcolm knew he had a concussion. He'd had them before numerous times from various accidents and incidents, enough to know exactly what one felt like. And he had one when he was rudely awoken by the shine of a torchlight beam in his face.

But he didn't voice this. Because one look at Trip was all he needed to know that the engineer had one as well: pupils uneven, slightly slurred words, trouble reading, and he knew that Trip would want to work despite this.

So Malcolm kept his own condition quiet. Aside from the broken leg which he couldn't really hide, it hurt more than he cared to admit and he couldn't exactly conceal the odd angle the limb was at anyway. At one point he landed wrong on his wrist and winced and was worried Trip had noticed, but the Commander just continued talking. Malcolm felt a swell of relief - and shame. He was glad Trip couldn't read the scanner's results properly. He hated himself for thinking that.

Malcolm stamped down on those feelings quickly. He kept working, tried to keep his mutinous mind from wandering. For just fleeting moment he dared to hope they could get through this without Malcolm ever having to reveal a word about his true condition.

And then the reading, the aliens, the colony - and Trip was mad at him.

And Malcolm was mad at Trip.

As if Trip hadn't done the exact same thing. As if Trip hadn't proven Malcolm's exact point, the reason why he didn't voice his other injuries.

But at least it seems that's behind them now. Now, they have other things to focus on.

Malcolm blinks back to the present, realises his mind was wandering again. Damn, but he wishes it wouldn't do that. He's not usually so distracted - then again, he supposes, this situation is abnormal, somewhat a thing of his recent nightmares. He can't look too long at any of the Tilonians before his brain finds and focuses on the similarities and sends him hurtling back to the past; memories he didn't even know he had resurfacing. These people are just as much victims as he was, he tells himself. They don't deserve his apprehension.

That doesn't mean I can't feel it.

Malcolm slowly exhales, it comes out shaky. Beside him, Trip shoots him a curious, worried glance, and Malcolm tries to offer a reassuring smile.

Trip frowns. We're talking later, his expression seems to say, before he turns back to Sanuv and Lirafik, and Malcolm belatedly registers the fact that he's missed almost an entire conversation.

“…to send a brief message to your ship," Sanuv concludes his explanation. "I wouldn't recommend staying too long. You never know who could be watching."

Malcolm feels a faint shiver run up his spine at the ominous words. Something sparks in the back of his mind, but when he grasps for it, it vanishes. Replacing it is a sense of sudden unease.

"I'll be careful," Trip promises. He looks at Malcolm. "Sound good to you, lieutenant?"

"Hm? Oh, sure." His voice comes out too quiet, too timid. He winces.

"Then it's settled. I'll pick you up tomorrow." Sanuv gets to his feet. Still somewhat lost, Malcolm watches him as he says his goodbye and leaves with Lirafik. He has no idea what they just talked about or what their supposed plan is, but he chooses not to ask, at least not yet. He concentrates on not letting that feel of trepidation swallow him whole. He doesn't even know where it came from.

They're given dinner, something which bears an uncanny resemblance to meatloaf that Eya calls tyfian-bah and tries to tell them how it's made, but the ingredients aren't translatable. Trip wolfs it down while Malcolm just pushes it around on his planet. He's not hungry even though he knows he should be.

"So," Malcolm says when they're in the privacy of their borrowed room. "We're contacting Enterprise tomorrow?"

"Yeah," Trip looks at him strangely. "You weren't payin' attention, were you?"

Malcolm sighs and gives a rueful smile. "No. Sorry, I was... rather distracted."

"Well, that's new." Trip sits down on his bed and frowns briefly, his hand coming up to his chest. "I'm good," he says when he sees Malcolm’s expression. "Basically, the plan is Sanuv's gonna drive me out to the gap in the field tomorrow. We can't stay long. I'm hopin' to get in contact with the ship, they should be able to pick up the hail, but..." He trails off. "Anyway, you said you could encrypt the carrier waves earlier, right? Sanuv took an interest. Yer supposed to mess up my communicator a bit with his help."

"I can do that." Malcolm nods. Then, "You said he's going to drive you. Just you?"

"Just me. Palja doesn't want you walkin' around so much." A grin stretches across the commander's lips. "It's weird, but I think he likes you for some reason."

"What's not to like?" Malcolm deadpans, and Trip laughs.

"Anyway." Trip leans back a bit and runs a hand through his still-unwashed hair. "Mind tellin' me why you were so distracted? That's not normally like you."

Malcolm ducks his gaze briefly. "No, it's not," he agrees. "I'm sorry, my mind has been straying quite a bit recently. It's probably the whole 'being in an unfamiliar environment' thing, and with my, uh... history with these aliens, I suppose I'm not at my peak."

"Yeah," Trip says. "Yeah, no, I understand that. Lirafik gave me a bit of a talkin' to, y'know, when I kinda exploded at him for stupid reasons. I'm havin' a hard time wrappin' my head around everythin' as well. Keep seein' them out of the corner of my eye and feel a pang of fear before I can reel myself back in." He shakes his head. "But I'm glad you were honest with me, Mal."

"I don't make a habit of lying for the sake of it." Malcolm purses his lips and pushes back bad memories. "I suppose it's also... The ship that shot at us, they were following us, weren't they? Hovering around that gas giant." Trip doesn't say anything so Malcolm presses on. "I just... You see, all this talk about factions and the possibility of them being lead here..."

Trip screws his eyes tightly shut. "Malcolm..."

"I'm just saying-" He cuts himself off, looks away, then back at Trip, at the tautness of his friend's shoulders, the anxiety radiating off him. "I agree with Sanuv," he finishes quietly. "I don't really believe in coincidences."

Trip is silent for a moment. "Enterprise'll be here in a day or so," he says finally. "Once we're back on there and away from here, we can investigate that ship properly and put to rest some of those questions you have."

"Of course," Malcolm says, lying back down.

"It'll all be okay." Malcolm can't help but feel that Trip is trying to reassure himself more than him. "You'll see."

Chapter Text

Trip is practically vibrating with anticipation and nervousness as Sanuv drives him through the colony in a vehicle best resembling an old golf cart. He holds the modified communicator in his hands; Malcolm spent all morning (what constitutes as a morning on this planet anyway) working on it under Sanuv's watchful eyes. Once, the alien asked with equal parts curiosity and suspicion how Malcolm had learned such a skill, and Malcolm muttered something about old bosses that meant nothing to Sanuv but made Trip stop short.

He pushed it to the back of his mind.

The cart wheels through the same gates they entered just two days earlier, out into the wasteland. Somehow out there is the shuttlepod, Trip thinks. Their crashed, broken shuttlepod with one properly-working thruster, unresponsive sensors, and no currently active emergency beacon. If he had the proper tools Trip doesn't think it'd take more than two hours to get it flying, though whether that flight would be stable is another question entirely. Or long-lasting. And there's still the issue with the gravitational fluctuations. Trip groans and slouches back, not liking what his mind is telling him.

It isn’t the first time they’ve lost a shuttle and had to get Jupiter Station to rebuild one from scratch, but doing so was costly and time consuming, and the looks the engineers there had given them – as if it was the Captain’s fault personally for getting it destroyed – weren’t particularly pleasant.

Sanuv glances at him out of the corner of his eye. "Something wrong?"

"Nothin'," Trip says. "Just wonderin' about our pod. What d'you think?"

"Why are you asking me?" the Tilonian answers dryly, keeping his gaze on the road. "I'm not familiar with your technology. Besides, I thought you were the engineer of your team."

“No, I just…” Trip flounders for a moment. “Ah, forget it.”

There’s about a minute of silence, just the sound of wheels against sand and distant winds, before Sanuv speaks up. “Your shuttle, even if it is reparable; I would advise leaving it. You shouldn't remain here longer than necessary.”

“Yeah, so we don’t draw attention to yer colony, I understand.” Trip sighs.

“And so you don’t draw attention to yourselves.” Finally, Sanuv lifts his gaze from the road and turns to Trip, eyes dark. “Your friend escaped the Ostaian faction, and you helped – they won’t like that.”

Ostaian faction. The same name Lirafik had said yesterday. “Didja figure out who it was on yer own or did Lirafik tell you?”

“Lira tells me everything,” Sanuv says. His attention is now back on the road and his expression is considerably softer. “He also told me he admitted my - our - connection to them. With them.” The hard look is back, but Trip has the feeling it’s not directed at anyone in particular.

“I don’t hold it against you,” Trip tries to say, but Sanuv just shakes his head.

“That’s not what this is about. I don’t care what you or anyone thinks of me. That time is years behind me now and I choose not to dwell on it too much.”

Years behind. So, he left before Malcolm was taken. Trip feels something uncoil in his chest he didn't even know was there.

“There is something you should know," Sanuv continues. "The Ostaian faction are notorious not just for their cruelty, but also for their intelligence. I feel I must tell you – it is likely that they may go after your friend or even your entire ship again. If you want my advice, you should forget your shuttle, leave it abandoned on this planet. Lay low and get out of this region of space as quickly as you can. The Ostaian faction has a wide reach and crossing them again would not lead to any good outcome for you.”

A part of Trip wants to blow up – wants to say I never asked for your advice! or we didn’t cross them, they attacked us! but wisely, he doesn’t. He merely nods instead.

Malcolm would be proud of his restraint.

A few more minutes of silent driving, not exactly comfortable but not uncomfortable either, then finally the vehicle slows and Sanuv announces in a mumble, “We’re here.”

Trip steps out and flips open the modified communicator he brought with him. Presses the button Malcolm told him to and the device makes a small pinging noise, then takes a deep breath, tries to ignore the anxiety. “Tucker to Archer.” Then he waits.

No response.

“Tucker to Cap’n Archer.”

“Try taking a few steps forward,” Sanuv suggests.

Trip obliges and tries again. “This is Trip, Jon. Are you there?” Nothing. “Please, Cap’n.” His tone is bordering on desperation and he’s starting to wish he’d brought some kind of signal amplifier. Enterprise could yet be too far out of reach for him to contact them.

Then, as if the universe is trying to prove him wrong, the communicator crackles to life, and the voice of his longtime friend comes through with a burst of static. “Archer… Trip, you… going on?”

“Cap’n!” Trip exclaims, then he laughs because the urge is so strong and he can’t believe this actually worked after all the shit they’ve been through. “Thank god, it’s good to hear your voice.”

“Signal… unclear. Trip, what’s… alright? I’ll… boosting the…”

“We’ve been better, Cap’n, but we’re both more or less alright.”

“Good t… hear. Trip, there’s some… tell you when… How’s Malcolm?”

The initial glee of finally getting in touch with Enterprise wearing off, Trip’s smile fades along with it as he realizes there’s an edge of distress in Archer’s tone. And why is he asking after Malcolm specifically? Something prickles across his skin, an itch in the back of his mind accompanying it. “Cap’n, what’s going on?”

A loud burst of static causes Trip to abruptly pull the communicator away from his ear, but when he brings it back the sound is significantly clearer.

“That distress signal… something’s going on, Trip. We’ll tell you when… back to the ship. ETA is eight hours. Is Ma- are you both okay?”

Trip’s once-smile morphs into a frown. “Our shuttle crashed, Cap’n. Somethin’ attacked us and we ended up in the wasteland of one of the planets in this system. Turns out there’s people livin’ here.” He turns to Sanuv, who is fiddling with his weapon in disinterest. “They’re, uh… well, they’ve been kind to us.”

“Attacked you?” It’s hard to make out among the poor signal, but Archer’s tone seems to have gotten even more frantic. “Do you know who… was?”

“Nope.” He doesn’t explain the readings and the fact that the same ones had popped up four weeks before. Too much information over a comm line that’s barely able to stay open. “But we’re okay. Can’t wait for you to pick us up, though.”

The line is silent, and Trip worries for a moment that he’s lost the connection, but then Archer’s voice comes up once more.

“We’ve moved up to warp four. We’ll… there in about six hours. Archer out.”

“See ya soon, Cap-”

“Trip!” Sanuv abruptly interrupts. He’s leaning out the window of the vehicle, what looks like a comm device of his own in his hand. Where his expression is usually stoic or impassive, his eyes now flare with a worry that makes sends a shiver up Trip's spine. “We have to get back to the colony. Now.”

Malcolm was sitting on the couch, listening to Eya describe her imaginary friend (a constant among children across all cultures, it seemed), when it began. First the low rumble of what was unmistakably an engine – Malcolm didn’t need to be an engineer to know that – then the distant screams that sent a chill down his spine and made his heart stop in his chest.

(He swears for a split second it happened literally as well.)

Suddenly Doctor Palja burst into the room and grabbed Eya by the wrist. She squirmed in his grip, asked what was going on, but her father didn’t respond. He gave a pointed look at Malcolm, one which said follow me.

So he hobbled upright and did.

“They found us,” the doctor said cryptically, rushed. “I don’t know how. It could have been your arrival-" and Malcolm was about to protest at that but Palja cut him off, "-or maybe we’ve just been here too long. I may be a doctor, but my first priority is to my daughter. Unfortunately, I also cannot just turn my back on my people.” He opened a door which had previously been hidden, and Malcolm had no time to marvel at the technology which must have cloaked it. The door led to a small flight of stairs descending to a concrete room.

Palja finally let go of Eya’s wrist and turned to look Malcolm directly in the eye. “You are a security officer, yes?”

“I am,” Malcolm replied.

“Protect my daughter.” Three simple words, that held so much weight and meaning that Malcolm couldn’t refuse.

“Yes, sir."

Palja’s eyes softened, and he knelt down in front of Eya, who had begun crying, and whispered reassurances Malcolm didn’t tune into. When Eya’s tears stopped falling, Palja stood up and looked at Malcolm again.

“When your friend returns, I will have him join you,” he said simply.

Then the door shut, muting the noises outside and leaving Malcolm stuck inside what seemed to be a bunker (if the food rations and lack of windows were anything to go by) with a child he knew little about.

Which is where Malcolm is now, kneeling on the floor next to Eya with his phase pistol trained at the closed door. The red-haired girl cries softly into her hands. She hasn’t said a word to him, hasn’t even looked at him since Palja left.

Malcolm shifts, uncomfortable with the weight he’s putting on his ankle but unable to do anything about it. Standing would waste his strength and sitting in any other position risks losing time if a threat came through the door. And, while he’ll never admit it out loud, Eya’s sobs have begun to grate on his ears.

“Hey, now,” he says in the softest voice he can manage. “How about I show you how my communicator works? I don't believe you've seen it yet.”

Miraculously, Eya looks up, her eyes still shiny with tears but dancing with the slightest of curiosity.

Ten minutes later, with no more of his technology to show the young girl, Malcolm gets her talking about her imaginary friend again in an attempt to keep her distracted, which is when the door to the bunker flies open. In an instant, Eya is cowering behind Malcolm who is now on his feet with his finger on the phase pistol’s trigger.

Greeted by the sight of a phase pistol pointed directly at him, Trip acts on pure instinct and draws his own, brain not quite catching up with the fact that both weapons are of the same make and model. When it does, however, he holsters his phase pistol immediately. “Whoa, hey! s’just me,” he exclaims. Behind him, the door shuts as Sanuv runs off somewhere.

Malcolm doesn’t drop his gun for a few more seconds, prompting Trip to raise an eyebrow. “If yer thinkin’ I’m some shapeshifting Suliban or somethin’, I can give you my word I’m not.”

“If you were a “shape-shiftin’ Suliban or somethin’”, your word would be worthless.” Malcolm does drop his arm, though. “Did you get in contact with the Captain?”

Trip steps further into the bunker, taking a moment to wave to Eya who gives a shy wave back, before turning back to Malcolm. “Yeah, and he sounded worried about somethin', but we have a bigger problem.”

“Bigger than being stuck on a colony that’s under attack?”

“…We have the same problem.”

Malcolm snorts. “Any idea what’s happening out there?”

“No clue.” Trip shakes his head. “Sanuv yelled at me that we had to go back just as I’d finished talkin’ with the Cap’n. We came back to chaos, Palja told me to find you in his bunker, and here I am.”

“My dad,” Eya pipes up, peering out from behind Malcolm’s legs. It’s quite adorable and reminds Trip of his younger cousins. “You saw my dad?”

“Oh, yeah.” Trip easily adopts the tone he uses when around kids with a smile. “He’s fine, don’t worry. Bein’ all brave and helpin’ everyone. Real careful, too; he’ll be back soon.”

Eya beams proudly.

Straightening up, Trip looks back at Malcolm, his expression creased into worry. “You okay? I don’t really know what’s goin’ on exactly, but I did hear someone say a faction-”

“I’m fine,” Malcolm answers quickly. A little too quickly, and it sends a bad taste across Trip’s tongue. “A little, bored, maybe. Not much to do in here. I-I find myself wishing I could do something to help.”

Trip shakes his head. “Not much we can do, Mal. Especially with yer broken leg. ‘sides, this isn’t your fight,” he adds on, echoing Lirafik’s words from yesterday. Yesterday. Had it really only been that long? How had things turned to hell so fast? Shaking himself out of that spiral, Trip slaps on a smile and flicks his gaze back to Eya again. “I hope Malcolm’s hasn’t been borin’ you in here."

Eya shakes her head, her red hair flopping about. “We were talking about your scanner, then Friad, my imaginary friend. But all the stuff you tell me is interesting. When I'm- when I'm older, I think I want to be a protector person like Malcolm and Sanuv. And then I can help my friends next time the bad people come."

And, honest to God, Trip sees a blush creep across the Lieutenant’s cheeks. Oh, he is so taking a mental note of that for later. “That’s very admirable, miss. I bet you’ll be a very good one.” He smiles. “Still, how about we play a game to chase away the boredom, hm?” And to distract her – and us – from whatever-the-hell it is transpiring above. “You ever heard of I Spy?”

“There’s a game named after me?” Eya asks excitedly.

However, there are only so many games of I Spy one can play while stuck in a bunker. And while the universal translator can navigate the complicated nuances of entirely different languages, it is apparently unable to translate single letters of a foreign alphabet. As such, Eya keeps “spying” things beginning with a letter that sounds somewhere between a throat clearing and a wail, and Trip eventually switches game.

They try word chains with pretty much the same result. Malcolm teaches her a clapping game from his childhood, one of the few things the Lieutenant has shared from his private life and while Trip wouldn’t say it out loud, lest he get shot in the knee, but it warms his heart to see Malcolm opening up to someone even only slightly.

Eventually, though, they lapse into silence, Trip simultaneously worrying about what’s going on above them and why Archer sounded so frantic over the comm earlier. Eya frets over her father and Malcolm does his best to comfort her. They’re out of distractions. Why can't the universe just give us a break? Trip thinks. A string of bad luck, that's their current situation. If only they didn't pick this planet to explore, if only Enterprise hadn't gone after that distress call, if only-

The sound of a ship passing close by makes Trip jump, and his gaze is on Malcolm in an instant. Malcolm is looking right back with an expression of muted hopefulness. “Enterprise? The other shuttle?”

“Can’t be,” Trip mutters regretfully. “They’re not supposed to be here for…” Trip trails off, frowning when he realizes he doesn’t know how long it’s been. Two hours? Three?

Then the door slams open, and Trip is given his second fright within ten seconds. Malcolm is on his feet with only a slight wince before anyone can blink, phase pistol at the ready, his free hand held protectively over Eya.

Only for the girl to squeal in delight and race forward as a familiar shock of red hair comes into view. “Dad, you’re back!”

Doctor Palja gives his daughter a quick hug, and when he bends down Trip notices Sanuv standing behind him. The alien security officer wears a grave expression, his jaw set tight and his expression a mixture of anger and determination.

“What’s happenin’?” Trip sputters. With the door open, he can hear the sounds of gunfire and the confused cries from the colony’s inhabitants more clearly. It makes his gut churn.

“The gravitational array,” he starts, then stops himself, seems to reconsider something. There’s a fresh anger in his eyes and Trip swears it’s directed at him. “We’re no longer hidden. They destroyed it.”

“Who?”

“We’re not sure.” Palja doesn’t look Trip in the eye, as if it’s painful for him to do so all of a sudden. “Other Tilonians, but we don’t know which faction.”

From behind him, Malcolm gasps. It’s a sound that’s odd coming from the Lieutenant, but not unheard of and, really, completely understandable given the circumstances. So it doesn’t set off alarm bells in Trip’s head.

Not at first.

What does set them off, however, is the sound of his name coming from the Lieutenant’s mouth.

And it’s the urgency in Malcolm’s tone, the way he says it as if fear has gripped him with no intention of letting go, that has a chill travelling down Trip’s spine and freezing his feet to the spot. After a second of just standing there like an idiot, he manages to force his body into turning around.

Just in time to watch Malcolm, a stunned and uncharacteristically panicked look in his eyes, shimmer and begin to fade away.

Chapter Text

Trip doesn’t think, he just reacts.

His fractured rib protests his sudden movement. Lurching forward, arms outstretched, slamming right into Malcolm and at the same time he is hit with a cold sensation that he is unable to pinpoint the origin of, spreading through his body like ice. He and Malcolm go crashing to the floor in an unceremonious tangle of limbs. Malcolm twists and struggles and there's a grimace of pain on his face but Trip holds his ground splayed on top of him. If the bastards are going to transport his friend up they’ll have to bring Trip up as well.

Then suddenly the cold feeling vanishes and someone is grabbing his arm and lifting him to his feet. Trip shrugs them off, eyes flickering around wildly, desperate to fall on Malcolm. The Lieutenant is still lying on the floor, one arm pinned underneath him, looking rather stunned but still all there.

His eyes flicker over to Trip, eyebrows raised slightly.

Trip lets out a breathy, wry chuckle that he can't help but think sounds more like a sigh of relief. “I honestly didn’t think that’d work.”

“You’re lucky it did.”

Both men turn at the sound of Sanuv’s monotone comment.  

“The Oastaian faction have made strides with technology, but transporters are one thing it seems they cannot master. They’ll have to wait a while before trying again.”

Trip feels his heart rate speed up. “You think it’s them? You think they’re gonna try again?”

“Wait a minute – who the bloody hell are we talking about?” Malcolm struggles to his feet – a taxing effort it seems on his broken leg regardless of the cast. Trip grabs his arm as he stumbles to steady him. “What’s an ‘Ostaian’? Why do they want… me?”

Trip opens his mouth to respond but no words come out. He can’t find the right way to say it. Malcolm is beginning to look agitated at being out of the loop, but there’s a hint of fear in his eyes as well.

Sanuv does not have the same qualms as Trip, however. “The ones who took you from your ship, last year, as you have told me.”

Malcolm’s face pales. He looks like he’s about to throw up whatever it was they had for breakfast that morning.

“You didn’t tell me you knew who they were!” Palja hisses angrily.

Sanuv’s eyes narrow at the doctor. “I wasn’t sure until now, when they tried to take this one.” He gestures with the energy weapon he’s holding. “They must have managed to track him. Do you know how?” The question is directed at Trip and Malcolm.

“No.” Trip shakes his head. “I thought you said we were hidden. Anyway, how d’you know it was us they tracked?”

“Because it doesn’t make sense otherw-” Sanuv cuts himself off, screws his eyes shut. He lets out a small puff of air through his nose. “We don’t have time for this.”

“I agree,” Malcolm cuts in, having regained some of his colour. “We can’t be standing around arguing. If it’s me they’re after, then, I suppose, the logical thing to do…” He trails off and bites his lip.

Trip mentally berates himself for taking so long to catch up. “No,” he snaps. “Absolutely not.”

“We don’t know how far away Enterprise is, Trip. By the time the Captain gets here this place could be in ruins and I could be… captured anyway. No, the logical thing to do-”

“Wouldja quit sayin’ ‘logical’?!” Despite himself, Trip grabs Malcolm’s arms with both hands, nails digging into the fabric of the sleeves and he ignores the ache in his fingers, and gives him a quick shake. “When’re you gonna drop the Vulcan act? I’m not lettin’ you fuckin’ give yerself up like this. Not after… not after how far…”

The air in the bunker has suddenly been sucked away. In the ensuing silence, the distant sound weapons fire seems so much nearer. Tears crowd in Trip’s eyes; he blinks them away rapidly. Damn him. Damn Malcolm. Damn everything.

Why can't everything just go right for once? Why can't he keep the ones he loves for just one, goddamn day?

“I agree with the Commander,” Sanuv finally says.

Trip whips his head around in disbelief.

“Believe me,” the alien officer continues, “a part of me wants to give you up. I want to give you up to save this colony. But the part of me that knows what this faction does, what it did to you, won’t let me.” He pauses, squares his shoulders. “You two, stay close to each other. Their transporter is completely useless at separating bio-signs if they’re in a crowd. They won’t be able to get a lock. Contact your ship. I’ll tell Lira to tell his team to do something to jam their sensors.” He stops talking, and Trip realizes he’s waiting for a response.

“Thanks,” he chokes out. Damn, but his voice is pathetic.

Sanuv gives him a quick nod, then turns to Palja. “Stay with them.”

“Are you out of your fu-”

“It’s just until Lira and Melev get here.”

"You don't know how dangerous this is, do you?"

Trip lets their conversation fade out of focus and turns his attention to Malcolm, who is still paler than normal, his shoulders shuddering at what Trip realises is his attempt to keep himself from hyperventilating. Forcing himself to cope alone, as always.

“Hey,” Trip says. “Look at me.”

Malcolm takes a deep breath. Grey eyes meet blue.

“If you ever say somethin’ like that again, I’m kicking yer ass, you hear?”

A ghost of a smile crosses Malcolm’s lips. “Understood, Sir.”

Trip nods, then flicks open his communicator. “Tucker to Archer.”

A burst of static that soon quietens down, then: “Trip! Thank god. T’Pol detected weapons fire on that planet you said you crashed on, and there’s over two hundred bio-signs that weren’t there previously. What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“A bit shaken,” Trip answers honestly, “but we’re alright. How far away are you?”

“Ten minutes, Warp 4.8. I’ll try to squeeze a bit more out of her. You two lay low, okay?”

“We ain’t got a choice.” When Archer doesn’t respond, Trip frowns. “Cap’n? You still there?”

More static. Trip’s frown deepens, worry stirring in his gut. He fiddles with the dials. “Cap’n?”

“It’s probably just the gravitational fluctuations confusing the signal." Malcolm sounds doubtful at his own suggestion. Especially when it dawns on him that Sanuv said the array was destroyed.

“Tr… Can’t hear…. Signal…” Then the communication is cut completely.

Across the room, Sanuv lowers the communicator he’d been talking to Lirafik on in confusion. He exchanges a look with Trip. “I just lost contact as well.” Their eyes remain locked for a moment more, then Sanuv hastily reaches into his pocket and pulls out a scanner. He taps it twice, squints at the results.

Then his eyes widen. “Oh, sh-”

Which is when the bunker door swings open with a reverberating clang, and three armed Tilonians dressed in dull cyan uniforms storm in.

Things happen fast, without warning.

Eya screams, and Palja wraps an arm around her protectively, pressing her and himself up against the wall with his hands up in the universal sign of not a threat. He doesn’t make a single move otherwise and is rewarded by being thoroughly ignored.

Sanuv’s weapon is up and a burst of red light hits one of the cyan-clad Tilonians directly in the chest. He goes down, but Sanuv is unable to get another shot in before one of the other Tilonians incapacitates him. He crumples to the floor in a heap, weapon clattering uselessly beside him.

One of the remaining Tilonians, this one over a foot taller than Trip and with wide pale eyes, locks eyes with Trip.

Looks over his shoulder.

Locks eyes with Malcolm.

And smiles.

Trip has barely enough time to step in front of Malcolm before a beam of light emitting from the Tilonian’s weapon hits him, and a cold sensation crawls up his body, paralyzing him inch by inch in both slow motion and fast forward at the same time.

Someone screams his name, raw and full of horror, just before Trip succumbs to the cold – and the darkness that follows.

Chapter Text

The return to consciousness is unpleasant. Much like waking up and discovering a cold has set in while you slept, Trip muses ruefully.

It takes only seconds for the throbbing in his head to set in; and only seconds after that for his limbs to start to ache as well. In well under a minute his entire body is just a big ball of sore, his chest the worst of it. And why can’t he seem to think straight? What the hell happened?

Voices break through the fog clouding his mind and, despite the fact that he doesn’t recognize who they belong to, he strains his ears to listen in.

“…tell me how you got two of them?”

“We didn’t plan it, ma’am. The other one jumped in the way of our shot. We decided it was best not to leave him there.”

There’s a brief pause. “He attempted to protect his underling? How precious.” The first voice, decidedly feminine in nature, chuckles. It’s a cruel sound that makes Trip’s blood run cold. “Too bad nothing came of it.”

What are they talking about? Trip tries to rifle through his cloudy memories but can’t seem to come up with anything, despite the nagging little voice in the back of his head telling him that something bad has happened.

He slips away before he can try again.

Archer has never heard the bridge so silent. If not for his vantage point in the Captain’s chair, he might even assume it’s been deserted.

All eyes are on the planet looming below, one half dark and one half glistening dimly with the light of its white dwarf star. The planet they left Malcolm and Trip orbiting around in a shuttlepod while they went to answer what turned out to be a bogus distress signal.

The last known whereabouts of his two senior officers.

“Bio-signs?” Archer asks, dreading the answer already. It’s been ten minutes since they lost Trip’s communicator signal in a sudden barrage of static and the line hasn’t been regained since.

Commander T’Pol taps her console and looks almost human in her expression as she gives her answer. “I cannot locate any humans on the planet, Captain.”

Someone gasps; one of the crewmen in the back. Travis’s hand tightens around his console. Ensign Tanner at tactical hardens his expression.

“Captain,” T’Pol continues, her face slipping into that cool Vulcan mask once again, “I’m picking up traces of a warp signature. I think you may find it familiar.”

Archer darts over to T’Pol’s station and leans over her shoulder, far too much into her personal space but he's too exhausted and wound up to care. His eyes scan the console, settling on the configuration she has pointed out. His breath catches. “Dammit.” He straightens up and shifts his attention to Hoshi. “Trip said there was some kind of alien colony down there. Do you have a read on them?”

The young Ensign flips through a few buttons and then nods. “I see them.”

“Send a hail. I need to speak to these people immediately.”

The communications station beeps as soon as Archer finishes his sentence.

“I think they’re hailing us, sir,” says Hoshi.

“Put it through.”

The viewscreen shifts from a view of the planet to the image of an alien, humanoid in appearance, with shaggy dark hair and twin arches on their face starting in the middle of their forehead and fading at the cheekbones. Their eyes are pale, and their skin is smudged with dirt. The alien doesn’t even get a word in before Archer opens his mouth.

“What the hell have you done to my men?”

The alien draws back slightly, tilts his head. Then, in a hesitant voice he asks, “Are you the human known as Captain Archer?”

The bridge goes silent once more. Travis and Tanner are giving each other a look, Hoshi is shooting Archer a raised eyebrow, likely for his outburst, and T’Pol is staring at him with an expression Archer knows far too well.

He takes a deep breath to stop himself from lashing out again. “I’m Captain Jonathan Archer of the Earth Starship Enterprise. Who are you?”

“My name is Lirafik,” says the alien. “I am Tilonian. Your men – are they known as Trip and Malcolm?”

“They are.” Despite himself, Archer begins to pace slowly. “Trip Tucker and Malcolm Reed. I tried to contact Mr Tucker ten minutes ago, but our connection was abruptly cut short. Now we can’t locate their bio-signs anywhere on your planet.” It comes out accusingly; he can’t help himself.

Lirafik’s shoulders sag and a sad look comes across his face. “Captain Archer,” he starts, stops himself. Tries again. “Your men, they…” Another pause. Finally, he closes his eyes and blurts out, “They were taken. By another faction. I hear the anger in your voice, Captain, but I promise you, though we are of the same species as the ones who took your men, we had nothing to do with it. Our colony was attacked at the same time.”

T’Pol glances up from her station. “Evidence suggests he is telling the truth,” she says. “I detect traces of weapons fire around their colony. They appear to have taken heavy damage. Captain-” she raises one eyebrow slightly “-I am also detecting the shuttlepod.”

Lirafik overhears this through the screen. “Yes,” he says, “your men, they crashed here three days ago. They said they were shot at and, while trying to get away, were pulled in by fluctuations in the gravity fields. My partner and I took them back to our colony. They were injured.”

Being attacked, staying at an alien colony; both things Trip mentioned when he was finally able to contact Enterprise. This makes Archer relax a bit. If Trip – as fiercely protective of Malcolm as he is – decided these colonists were trustworthy, then so can he.

Maybe.

The old Archer would have trusted in a heartbeat, but he is not the old Archer anymore. The Expanse and the experiences of the last year have hardened him.

“Do you know who took them?” Archer stops his pacing and comes to stand in front of the Captain’s chair.

Lirafik nods once. “The Ostaian faction. Captain Archer, it is both my belief and the belief of my partner that the Ostaians were also the ones behind your Malcolm’s first abduction.”

Archer’s blood runs cold. So, Trip told them that as well, he thinks distantly, but it isn’t foremost on his mind at the moment. No, what’s sent a spike of fear through him is the sudden memory of that grim alien space station, of Malcolm pale and limp and covered in blood in Trip’s arms as they carried him towards the exit, and the thought that his two best friends could be subjected to something so horrendous.

He catches Travis’ eye. The helmsman is looking right at him, expression mirroring Archer’s own. He seems to be thinking the same thing.

Shaking himself from his thoughts, Archer straightens up and tries to ignore the trembling in his hands. “Have you any information you can give me about this… Ostaian faction? Where did they take my men? What do they want with them?”

“I have no answer for you. I wish I did,” Lirafik says, looking genuinely guilty. “My partner Sanuv may be able to tell you, but he… he is injured.”

Archer furrows his brow. “Are you in need of medical assistance? We have doctor on board who may be able to help.”

Lirafik considers this for a minute, but ultimately shakes his head. “Thank you, no. Tensions are high here, and I couldn’t possibly inconvenience you. If you would remain in orbit a little longer, I can get Sanuv on the comm. line for you in the morning.”

“We’ll need to send a team down to collect our shuttlepod anyway,” Archer points out. “It’s really no inconvenience if you need the help.”

“Please, Captain.” Lirafik smiles sadly. “Our sanctuary has been disrupted and I think most of us want to be left alone in the wake of this. Rest assured, we have more than enough supplies to treat our injured people.”

“We still need to get our shuttlepod back.” Lirafik looks hesitant at this idea but Archer doubles down with, "We won't go anywhere near your colony. We have transporter technology, we'll use it to go straight to the shuttle's location." And if anyone has any complaints about that they can keep it to themselves.

Finally, with a purse of his lips and a soft sigh, Lirafik relents. "Very well. You do that, and I’ll have Sanuv contact you in the morning when he is well.”

“Thank you. We appreciate it.”

The Tilonian bows his head. “Even if I only spent a mere couple of days with them, I can tell that Malcolm and Trip are good men. I wish you a thousand stars worth of luck, Captain Archer.” Communication is terminated after the odd turn of phrase, the viewscreen flickering back to the view of the planet.

Archer stares at it for a second, then turns on his heel. “I’ll be in my ready room,” he says, storming off the bridge before anyone can say a word.

He doesn’t sleep that night. He lies awake in his bed until past midnight, trying in vain not to think about all his recent failings, trying not to let that pesky voice in the back of his head saying you don’t deserve to be a captain win. Not even water polo can get the voice to shut up, and at some time around two in the morning he gives up completely and palms open the door to his quarters.

Porthos lifts his head up curiously from where he’s been lying obediently at the end of the bed. Archer gives him a small smile. “Come on, then.”

With an eager bark, the beagle leaps off the bed and trots happily to his master’s side.

They walk aimlessly around the hallways, barely pausing even to speak to the skeleton crew on duty. Archer suspects, in a ship this small, news of Trip and Malcolm’s disappearance has already gotten around, and it doesn’t take a genius to factor in Hamaya’s sudden abduction and put two and two together.

Though, as far as he knows, no one except the bridge crew knows about the colony on the planet below, or the “Ostaian faction”. Unless he’s got a leak. And even if Travis is notorious at spreading around information from the bridge, Archer has a suspicion even he has kept his mouth shut.

The team that went down to the planet earlier today received little trouble. Trip and Malcolm already did a good chunk of work on the shuttlepod for them, and all that needed to be done was repair a thruster and reintegrate the circuits in the pilot's console. The rest could be done on board now that the shuttle was capable of flight. Barely, though - they had to use the grapplers and the engine died just as they locked on. Fortunately, Hess wasn't harmed, just a bit shaken up.

At least he won't have to write a report for the loss of another shuttlepod, Archer thinks humourlessly. If there's one good thing - one bright side, as Phlox would call it - to focus on.

(He doesn’t even dare let his mind wander to the three far more important reports he’ll definitely have to write.)

Archer and Porthos make it to the mess hall, which is empty save for a lone figure sitting at one of the back tables. For a moment, Archer can almost see Malcolm bent over a half dozen PADDS, or maybe Trip with a glass of milk in hand as he gazes distantly at the starts out the window, and Archer's heart aches at the realisation he may not see either of his friends for some time.

Not if I can help it, whispers the optimistic side of him. How it still exists after all this time, he isn’t exactly sure.

The person in the mess hall turns out to be Commander T’Pol of all people. She’s seated perfectly straight with a beverage in one hand and a PADD in the other, intently focused; she looks up when she hears Archer approaching. “Captain.”

“Couldn’t sleep?” He gestures towards an empty chair, questioning, and T’Pol invites him to sit. Porthos dutifully comes to rest at Archer's feet.

“I am well-rested, Captain,” says the Vulcan first officer. “I am merely looking through all the information we have collected on these aliens – these ‘Tilonians’.” She shows him her PADD. “Unfortunately, we have very little. There is no record of them in the Vulcan database.”

Archer reads through it with a frown. “Indeed. ‘Divided government’, how did you come to that conclusion?”

“Logic,” T’Pol says simply. “The colony on the planet below and the ‘Ostaian’ attackers are of the same species, however, do not follow the same views. I have looked into it and found reports from different planets of Tilonians seeking refuge. They seem to be a violent people. Similar to humans, in fact.”

Captain Archer looks up, one eyebrow raised, a smile playing on his lips. “Except we united whereas they divided.”

“Of course.” T’Pol takes her PADD back but doesn’t make a motion to continue looking through it. She places it face down on the table instead and threads her fingers together. “Captain,” she says, “I feel I must inform you that what has happened these past few days is of little fault of your own.”

“Am I that obvious?” Archer gives a nervous laugh, stopping when T’Pol’s expression doesn’t even twitch. “A part of me understands that,” he says. “But another part can’t help but think I could have done more. I mean, if we’d really looked into that distress signal, could we have found something that gave away their true intentions?”

T’Pol legitimately considers this, before shaking her head. “My scans were sound. Ensign Keeley can confirm that. There was nothing that could suggest it was anything other than a genuine distress signal.”

“And what about the ship? Surely, we could have figured out their engines were just offline and not completely broken down.”

“The readings on my console said that their engines were broken down. Since my console is not broken – I have checked – it’s likely they had some advanced technology that allowed them to hide their true situation. Captain, if you are going to criticize my work, I would prefer you do so in a more direct manner.”

Archer looks up and gives his first officer a small, apologetic smile. “Sorry, T’Pol. That wasn’t my intention. I just..." He slouches forward against the table. "I should never have left them alone in that pod. That was foolish."

T’Pol’s shoulders relax, but there’s something dancing in her eyes, something human, and it makes Archer think she knew what he meant all along. “Perhaps it was foolish," she admits honestly, "but you could not have predicted this would happen. You could not have predicted that the ship we found would suddenly power up their engine and activate weapons. You could not have predicted they would use a transporter to take Ensign Hamaya. There was no reason to suspect they were anything but a broken ship in need of assistance until the moment they opened fire, and there was no way to know just what would go wrong on Mr Reed and Tucker's mission.”

“Thank you,” Archer says after a beat of silence. “I needed that.”

“I am glad I could be of assistance.” T’Pol stands elegantly, holding a now empty mug in her hand. “If you’ll excuse me, I will be retiring to my quarters for the rest of the night.”

“I’ll see you in the morning.” Archer nods.

T’Pol returns the gesture, then steps out of the mess hall, leaving Archer alone with Porthos and his thoughts, which have become somewhat lighter than before.

They’re introduced to Sanuv the next morning. Sanuv is apparently a security officer, and it’s obvious his sense of duty and devotion to those he protects is prided above all else, similar to Malcolm. The comparison sends a pang of loss through Archer.

Sanuv tells them, in a dispassionate, detached tone that also reminds Archer of Malcolm, what little he knows about the Ostaian faction. He confirms T’Pol’s hypothesis of a divided government and explains the vie for power among the scattered Tilonians. He doesn’t know where the faction may have taken Trip and Malcolm, but he knows someone who does.

“There’s an old research station a couple days away at warp three,” he tells them. “I… know some people there. They’ll likely know more than me.”

“What you’ve told us has been very helpful,” Archer says diplomatically. “And I thank you, for doing your best to protect my men, even though you had no reason to trust them.”

Sanuv’s face twists into something akin to anger, but not directed at Archer. “The Ostaian faction are a vile people,” he spits. “I’d not wish my worst enemy into their hands. I hope you find your men soon, Captain Archer.”

His words don’t assuage Archer’s worry, but he thanks the Tilonian anyway and the communication is terminated. Seating himself in the captain’s chair, Archer says, “Break orbit, Travis. We’re heading for that research station. Warp three.”

The engine hums beneath his feet as the ship lurches into motion.

Chapter Text

Sitting in the cell, back pressed against the wall, Malcolm is trying very, very hard not to freak out. It wouldn’t be proper, of course, and “freaking out” is not something a tactical officer does. A tactical officer stays in control. He assesses the situation, formulates plans in his head.

Oh, to hell with that, part of him counters. I say we’re entitled to a little freak-out if we want to.

He pushes the thought away and instead finds something to distract himself with. It isn’t difficult; his leg is in agony, the dressings and the fancy alien cast Doctor Palja so carefully placed has been torn right off, leaving his foot exposed and his leg without support.

Palja. Malcolm hopes the man is okay. And his daughter – where were they when the other Tilonians came in? He can’t remember, and it frightens him, he doesn’t want to be responsible for a little girl’s death. He can feel his chest begin to tighten and he forces himself to take deep, slow breaths.

Time for that freak-out now?

A low groan from the corner of the cell shakes Malcolm out of his would-be spiral, and he discovers something else to focus on. “Commander?”

Another groan, louder this time, is the response, followed by an incomprehensible mutter that could be “where are we?” but also could just as easily be a string of Southern profanities. Malcolm decides on taking the safe route and asks, “Are you all right? Can you hear me?”

“Fuck,” Trip says. “Did Travis crash a shuttlepod on my head while I slept? Jesus…” In the dim light, Malcolm can just catch Trip moving to sit up, one hand at the back of his head. Then he seems to suddenly jerk upright, looking around wildly. “Malcolm. Malcolm?”

“Over here,” Malcolm answers.

Trip zeroes in on his voice and crawls towards him. In a few seconds, the Commander’s face is no longer shadowed, and even with minimum lighting Malcolm can see his complexion is a tad paler than usual. He's trembling slightly, the bastard better not have another bloody concussion. Malcolm doesn't get the chance to ask this, however.

“Malcolm! Are you okay? I-I can’t remember wha’ happened, I’m sorry.”

Malcolm forces what he hopes is a reassuring smile onto his face. “I’m… doing well. Given the circumstances.”

“Circumstances?” Trip’s eyebrows knit in confusion, and after a few seconds a realisation appears to dawn on him. His expression switches to distraught in an instant. “Aw, hell. I thought I could… I dunno, protect you or somethin’. An’ it didn’t… Shit, Malcolm.”

“That’s why you leave the heroics to me, Commander,” Malcolm attempts to lighten the mood but Trip doesn’t even crack a grin. He remains forlorn, sitting just a few feet away in front of Malcolm with his legs tucked beneath him.

Malcolm closes his mouth, swallows. There’s a tactical itch at the back of his mind telling him to assess his surroundings, but he knows if he removes his gaze from his friend, he’ll catch eye of the pale orange walls and the pipes running along the ceiling, and who knows where his mind will trap him then? So instead he says, “Other than the obvious headache, are you all right? You haven’t given me a clear answer yet.”

“Yer askin’ about me, and yer-” He’s cut off by Malcolm’s raised eyebrows and sighs. “My chest hurts a bit where I got shot, an’ it’s a bit cold in here, but I’m good.”

Malcolm can’t restrain his wince at the memory of his friend, the man he should have been protecting, jumping in front, taking a shot meant for him. “I’m sorry,” he says, his eyes moving to stare at his hands.

“Sorry? For what?”

“I couldn’t do anything,” Malcolm explains stiffly. “After you were shot I just… froze. They took me out as well soon after. I couldn’t do anything.” He repeats the last part to himself, like a guilty man trying to justify a wrong deed. And, anyway, isn’t that what you are? sneers that pesky voice in the back of his mind.

Trip sighs. Malcolm hears then sees him shuffle closer, watches as his hand reaches out to rest atop Malcolm’s clasped fingers.

“Stop wallowin’ in sorrow, Lieutenant. Look at me.”

Malcolm lifts his head. A glimmer of determination shines in Trip’s eyes, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“We’re gonna get outta here. Both of us.”

Malcolm can’t help himself – he smiles, regretful and without humour. “That’s unlikely, Commander.”

“Right, I s’pose you’ve already tried.”

Actually, he hasn’t. He hasn’t moved from his spot, backed into the wall, since he woke up on the floor of this cell, and not just because it’s unlikely he’ll be able to walk. Too many memories came rushing back at once and he felt paralyzed in the face of them. No matter how pathetic it was.

“Commander,” Malcolm says carefully, “in case you’ve forgotten, my leg is broken.” He doesn’t mention the rest of it.

Trip is silent for a second, then he swears. “Fuck. How is it? 's it botherin' you? That's a stupid thing to ask," he continues as Malcolm opens his mouth, "of course it's botherin' you."

"I'm fine," Malcolm says, then cringes because that's just about the worst thing he can say in front of Trip. "I mean- I can deal with the pain. It's not that bad."

Trip doesn't believe him. That much is obvious in the engineer's pursed lips and narrowed eyes, but to Malcolm's relief he merely moves on. "Damn it to hell," he mutters to himself, then out loud, "Has anyone come by yet?"

“Not that I’ve seen. I apologize, Commander, but as you may have noticed, I’m kind of…” Malcolm trails off with a grimace, waving a hand near his head in a vague fashion.

And there's that dreaded sympathy look Malcolm wanted to avoid, thought he did avoid just now. “An’ yer sure yer okay? They… they didn’t hurt you any, right?”

“Enough fussing over me, Trip.” Malcolm hopes the usage of first names gets his message across. “I woke up a bit before you, I haven’t seen anyone, and I haven’t discovered any new wounds on my person. However, I doubt they dragged both of us here as mere guests of honour.” And that isn’t even his pessimistic side talking.

Trip frowns, his eyes going dark. He probably already figured that out, Malcolm reasons, but refused to let himself think about it. “They ain’t layin’ a hand on us. Not if I can help it.”

“Trip-”

“By the feel of it, I’d say we’re travelling at about warp five.” Trip cuts off the beginnings of Malcolm’s protest, getting to his feet. “Cap’n was ten minutes away before. T’Pol’s probably picked up the warp trail. I’d bet my new toolkit that Enterprise is already trailin’ behind.” He shakes his head. “I refuse to believe there ain’t nothin’ we can do to help get ourselves out of this.”

Words crowd at Malcolm’s lips: pessimistic rebuttals, bristled insults, but he forces them down. It’s the equivalent of rolling over and giving up, accepting his fate without a fight. Malcolm’s never been one to do so and he sure as hell isn’t going to start now.

So instead he lets a grin quirk at the corner of his mouth and quips, “Your grammar is as atrocious as ever, Commander.”

Trip turns, gives him an apprehensive look that dies immediately when he sees Malcolm’s expression, and a smile of his own crosses his face. “Glad t’ hear yer still well enough t’ make fun o’ the way I talk, Loo-tenant,” Trip banters in return, thickening his accent playfully. “You just sit tight; I’ll see if there’s any way outta here.”

Sitting tight, not normally something Malcolm is willing to do. However, considering the pulses of pain emanating from his leg – it must have gotten worse – he doesn’t think he can bear to stand. It still annoys him to no end, though.

A thought occurs to him as Trip makes his way over to the glass wall that seals their cell off from a dark corridor. “Commander, I don’t know if that’s a good idea. They could be watching.”

“Then they can come back here and stop me.” Trip runs his hands along the corners, his back to Malcolm now. “Anyway, you’ve gotten out of here before.”

Malcolm isn’t sure Trip meant to say that part out loud, for the Commander stiffens instantly, hands freezing in place. Malcolm feels his heart rate speed up and his lungs tighten, memories clambering through his mind in a jumble of images and senses, threatening to overwhelm him. “That was different, Sir.” He forces his voice to be level. “In fact, this entire situation is different. This is nothing like it was before.” And he isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

Trip takes a deep breath and runs a hand through his hair. The splints on his fingers are gone also, Malcolm realises. “You’re right. Sorry, Malcolm, I didn’t mean to bring that up.”

“It’s all right,” Malcolm says, hushed.

Trip gives a noncommittal hum and resumes his search around the glass, looking for anything from hinges to latches to keypads. He doesn’t find anything, even given the dim light Malcolm can tell from the telling expression of irritation on the engineer’s face.

As Trip moves on down one of the side walls, he breaks through the silence, perhaps just to make conversation. “Why’d ya think they put us in the same cell?”

Malcolm glances up, not even realizing his head had dropped. “Perhaps they don’t view us much of a threat,” he guesses.

“How much d’you think it’ll take to prove them wrong?”

“I wouldn’t try anything,” Malcolm says, more memories rushing through his mind’s eye.

Trip suddenly steps away from the wall, hands dropping to his sides, and shakes his head. “Dammit. Aside from these pipes there’s not even a nick on these walls. I can’t feel any latch, no buttons, and there sure as hell ain’t a keypad.” He exhales slowly, then returns to sit next to Malcolm, who shifts uncomfortably at the sudden closeness. He feels gross in his five-day-unwashed uniform, sweat trickling down the side of his face.

Trip either doesn’t notice, or otherwise doesn’t care, and it occurs to Malcolm that they’re in roughly similar shape.

“Think if we ask nicely,” Malcolm quips, gritting his teeth through the pain suddenly spiking up his leg, “they’ll give us some painkillers?”

Trip just stares at him, eyes full of concern, then huffs a laugh. It sounds flat without his usual jovial nature to it. “Doubt it.”

Chapter Text

All things considered, Trip thinks, it could be worse. They could be separated, tied down to tables, subjected to whatever experiments these aliens desired. They could be tortured.

They could be killed.

That went sideways fast. Trip curses himself for even going down the worst-case scenario route in the first place. Deep down, he suspects the worst of his fears have yet to come true, but he chooses not to dwell on that. Malcolm is the pessimist (or realist, as the Lieutenant insists), not him. His job is to stay awake, stay vigilant, and stay optimistic that Enterprise is on its way.

How long has it been, anyway? They have no sense of time, in this permanently dim cell with all their technology gone. It’s been a while, certainly, for Trip’s starting to feel the beginnings of hunger pangs in his stomach. So far, no one has been by to offer them provisions of food or water, or even to say hello, which, Trip thinks sarcastically, is rather rude of them.

Then he chuckles, because his inner voice sounded just like Malcolm for a second there.

This causes the actual Malcolm sitting beside him to turn and give him a raised eyebrow. “What’s so amusing?”

“Nothin’,” Trip says, waving it off. The brief bout of humour is gone as quickly as it came, replaced once again with the numb feeling of dread. Someone, he realizes, will be coming by soon. They weren’t taken for nothing. Someone will be coming by, and when they do it’s very likely they’ll have their eyes set on Malcolm, and Trip will be powerless to stop them.

Trip stops that train of thought quickly and takes a deep breath. He needs to focus on something else. Anything else.

Right now, they sit side by side, close enough that their shoulders touch and Trip can feel the faintest of trembles in Malcolm’s body whenever he exhales. Malcolm’s broken leg is stretched out in front of him. It’s bent at a slight angle, any evidence of Palja’s careful treatment gone, and seems to be aggravating him again. Beads of sweat dot his forehead, and his face is pale save for the unhealthy flush on his cheeks, which Trip worries may not be entirely due to the pain in his ankle. Could he have caught something down on the planet? Delicate is the last word anyone would use to describe their armoury officer, but Malcolm’s allergies are no secret to Trip. He knows Malcolm’s more easily susceptible to alien viruses and pathogens than the rest of them. And isn’t that just what they need right now on top of everything – for Malcolm to be sick?

Deciding to just go for it, Trip opens his mouth to ask the dangerous question, “are you feeling alright?” but Malcolm speaks first.

“I don’t think these are the same pe- er, aliens as last time.”

Well then. “Why do you think that?” Trip ventures.

Malcolm shifts himself, winces. His voice has taken on a slightly strained quality. “Their procedures seem different. Last time it was…” He trails off, closes his eyes momentarily. Trip’s about to tell him it’s okay, that he doesn’t have to relive anything just to prove a point, but Malcolm, adopting a detached, disinterested expression, soldiers on. “Last time it was medical. Professional. We were tied down, injected with hyposprays. And their faces.” He takes a shaky breath. “Last time, it was like they were doing a job. Necessary stuff. This time, when they came storming into that bunker…”

Trip fills in the blanks when Malcolm trails off again. He recalls the sadistic smile that had spread across the lead Tilonian’s face when they locked eyes, the glee in the expressions of their colleagues.

“Like hunters who’d finally cornered their prey,” Trip finishes.

Malcolm looks up, the corner of his lips quirking slightly, unhappily. “An accurate metaphor.”

“Then again, the circumstances are different,” Trip points out, not elaborating because, well, the previous circumstance had involved Malcolm’s cold body floating in a debris field. “Anyway,” he continues quickly, “Sanuv himself told us it was the Ostaian faction. An’ he’d know.”

“Same faction, different individuals,” Malcolm guesses, then purses his lips into a thin line. “Perhaps I’m just reading too far, and God knows how little we have to go on, but, I don’t know. I just have this… feeling that these aren’t the same ones. I know, I sound paranoid.”

Trip shakes his head. “You don’t. I trust yer judgement, Malcolm. You have a sixth sense for this sorta thing, and if you say these could be different people, then I trust you.”

At this, Malcolm gives a genuine smile, relief and warmth emerging behind the pain in his eyes.

Suddenly, a door slides open from somewhere down the hall, out of their field of vision, interrupting the moment. Trip instinctively flings his arm out in front of Malcolm’s chest in a futile and useless attempt to shield him from whatever is coming. Malcolm shifts in protest, brings his hand up to hold Trip’s wrist, but doesn’t make a move otherwise and Trip doesn’t either.

Footsteps tap against the floor, growing louder. Trip’s heart flutters in his chest and he can feel Malcolm’s breath catch. Fuck, but he’s not ready for this. Too long being left alone had obviously caused him to create a false sense of security despite his attempts to stay on guard. Perhaps it was intentional, he wonders. Make them relax, even the smallest bit, then swoop in for the kill.

Two Tilonians in dull blue uniforms come to stand in front of the glass of the cell. One of them holds a rather impressive energy rifle, while the other is unarmed, her hands clasped behind her back in a posture similar to T’Pol’s.

Her expression couldn’t be more different from Enterprise’s first officer, though. The Tilonian is smirking, her eyes are narrowed. Trip draws back instinctively, but he’s already pressed up against the wall and there’s no where else for him to go.

After a moment of just staring, the unarmed smirking Tilonian woman speaks. “We’ll separate you by force if need be, but I’d rather not have to do that.”

“You might have to,” Trip counters. His voice is surprisingly steady, and even somewhat menacing, a pure contrast to his racing heart and the panicked rolling of his gut. That uncomfortable pressure low in his chest is back as well. “What d’you want us here for?”

The woman waves a hand dismissively. “That’ll take too long to explain.” She turns and says something to her colleague, who nods his head and lifts his wrist, revealing a watch-like device. He taps something on it, and the glass splits in half to create a narrow doorway. He then lifts his rifle and points it directly at Trip.

“I have no need for you,” the woman says, looking at him. “You’re only here because of your own foolish actions, a mistaken act of “bravery”.” She scoffs out the word. “You can be used as leverage for your friend here, but that’s about it. I have no qualms about killing you. You should consider your next actions carefully.”

In other words, the ball is in Trip’s court: put up a fight and get himself killed, or willingly let Malcolm walk straight into the enemy’s hands.

Malcolm makes the decision for him. With a whispered apology that he barely has time to absorb, Trip suddenly finds himself with an elbow to his face and pain explodes across his face, stars dancing across his vision. He stumbles, disoriented, vaguely aware of movement beside him as Malcolm struggles to his feet. A muffled groan of pain between his teeth. He staggers, nearly falls sideways.

Trip reaches out, trying to grab onto any part of Malcolm, but the Lieutenant has already limped out of his reach. He shakes his vision clear and hauls himself up onto his knees. "His leg's broken!" he protests. "He can't walk!"

The Tilonian woman looks at Trip, then shifts her eyes up and down Malcolm. "He seems to be walking just fine," she says with sadistic amusement.

Trip growls, grits his teeth and finally gets to his feet - but that's all he can do. He wants to lunge forward, put himself between them and his friend, damn the consequences, but his brain has lost contact with his legs, his body feels paralyzed. "Malcolm," he calls out, strangled. "Don't."

Malcolm's using the wall to support himself, limping, his injured leg held straight and stiff in some attempt to keep the pain at a minimum. He doesn’t respond. He merely lets himself be led out of the cell, the glass closing behind him. He doesn’t turn to face Trip even once.

Finally, long after Malcolm and the Tilonians have disappeared from view, Trip collapses forward onto his hands and knees. His breathing is fast and ragged. He curses himself for his uselessness, and curses his friend for being so damn self-sacrificing.

“Malcolm,” he hisses, and he hates that it sounds more like a sob, “you fucking idiot.”

He’s just hit a superior officer.

Your friend, his mind reminds him, just to add insult to injury. You hit your friend and your superior officer.

Nevermind that it was to stop the daft bastard from getting himself killed, he still hit him. Elbow to the face. Unprovoked assault. Trip won’t file an official report, of course, but it’s not that Malcolm is worried about.

Trip, he begs, glancing over his shoulder though he knows he won’t be able to see his friend anymore, please forgive me.

He clenches his teeth tight as he walks. It hurts, but it's not unbearable compared some of the stuff he's been through. He's broken bones before. He dares to hope this one isn't as bad.

But it'll probably get worse the more he walks on it.

They don’t restrain him as they walk through the ship, down sterile, winding corridors, passing nobody on their way to… wherever they’re headed. Some torture room, probably, the more cynical part of his mind quips. He nearly collapses twice and the aliens watch on with disinterest both times as he staggers back upright. Despite this, he wonders why they don’t restrain him. Who's to say he won’t suddenly leap up and take that guard’s gun?

His question is answered as if they read his mind.

“You seem like a very sensible person,” the Tilonian woman says. “Your actions, however violent, stopped your friend from hurting himself. You care for him.”

Malcolm doesn’t answer this immediately. They’re looking for weakness. “You can be used as leverage,” she’d said earlier to Trip.

“He’s my superior officer,” he says as flatly as he can manage. “It’s my duty to protect him.”

It would be easy to prove him wrong, Malcolm thinks. They likely have cameras or some monitoring device set up in their cell, and one look at that footage would certainly show that the relationship between him and Trip is more than just commander and subordinate. Still, on the off chance that they have no idea, he opts to keep up the façade for as long as possible.

He vows not to let Trip get hurt because of him.

Despite the raging impulse to take the guard’s rifle and wipe that infuriating smirk of the Tilonian woman’s face. Despite every instinct in his body screaming wrong, wrong, wrong, at his compliance.

Despite everything, he grits his teeth and lets himself be led like a lamb to the slaughter. Fresh pain flares up his leg every time he puts weight on it but the jab of a rifle barrel to his back forces him to move.

He’s unrestrained yet still trapped.

Chapter Text

By the time the guard tells him to stop his entire leg is in absolute agony. Using the time it takes for the guard to key in a passcode to the door they’ve stopped in front of, Malcolm leans against the wall and takes the pressure off his tortured limb.

Tortured. Hah! You think this is bad, Reed? Wait until you see what they have in store for you. The memories return unbidden. White hot pain spiking through his skull. His chest feeling like it had been set on fire. Anguished cries, sometimes his own and sometimes not.

The door opens and he’s being pushed through before he can fully reintegrate himself with the world around him. It’s a white room, he realises through his own daze, sterile like the halls, and far too bright. He squints, stumbles, and no one’s there to catch him. Fortunately he manages to catch himself on a nearby table before he faceplants to the floor.

“The hell’s wrong with him?” an unfamiliar voice demands.

“Who knows?” A different voice, a slight snigger. “Let’s just get this over with. I have a meeting soon.”

It’s almost funny, the mundane complaints. Like they’re talking about some paperwork instead of getting ready to torture someone.

“Very well. Administer the paralyzing agent.”

He catches movement out of the corner of his eye and he turns, but he’s too slow and there’s a cold bite of a hypospray against his neck. He stumbles again, reaches out blindly, and grabs the table again. His body has suddenly become slow to his commands. He can’t bend his fingers; his legs are weaker than they already were. The room tilts sideways.

Suddenly he’s lying on his back. Humiliatingly, his uniform has been stripped away, leaving him in just the under-suit. The black shirt has been unbuttoned and his torso is exposed. There are hands all over him, moving straps across his body to keep him immobile – not that they need to. He can’t move anyway. He wills himself to struggle but his body just won’t respond. His vision has gone blurry. His heart thuds loudly in his chest.

“Have you got something to slow his heart rate? We can’t retrieve the device when he’s like this.”

“One second.”

Some rattling, then there’s another hypospray, this one plunging directly into his chest. He feels the thud of his heart begin to slow involuntarily, but his breathing is still fast, hitched. He makes a sound low in his throat that fortunately none of them seem to hear.

“Perfect. Now we can begin.”

“Do you have the scalpel?”

He sees a flash of metal through the blur. Somewhere, deep in his mind, he has a faint idea of what they’re about to, and he struggles fiercely against the paralysis and maybe he even manages to succeed somewhat, because he feels the restraints on his wrists rub against skin but ultimately, it’s no use.

The metal glints menacingly. It comes towards him, his chest.

Pain. Hot, blinding, intense.

He screams.

The pain is still there when he returns to consciousness. It’s lessened somewhat, but it’s enough to make him moan in anguish. His entire chest feels… unnatural, is the only way he can describe it. Painful and unnatural. He tries to move his limbs but whatever the aliens injected him with must still be in his bloodstream; he can’t even lift a finger.

There are voices, unclear, and if he strains his ears and focuses, he can just about hear them.

“I can’t believe this.”

“What?”

“The device. It’s been erased!”

“Are you sure?” A pause. “How is he still alive?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps his species had the ability to revive him in time.”

The room is silent. “Shit,” says a third voice. “What about the ship? Did you get anything from their database before we destroyed them?”

Malcolm’s heart stops. Surely they can’t mean Enterprise?

“Yes, but it’s useless. The information we need should have been stored on this device, that's what they said! And now we’re left with nothing.”

Not Enterprise, Malcolm manages to understand. Thank God.

“There is always the other subject.”

Another moment of silence. “Well, what do we do with this one? He’s useless to us now.”

“I don’t think so. Look at this.”

The voices begin to fade as unconsciousness tugs at Malcolm once more. Just before he succumbs, he manages to pick up words like “brain waves” and “readings” and “connection”, but he can’t fathom what they could mean as a whole.

Trip hasn’t stopped pacing since they took Malcolm – which, he guesses, must be around three hours ago now. His legs are beginning to tire but still he moves. The burn is good, it keeps him grounded, focussed on something else other than what could be happening to his friend. His jaw still aches from the hit to his face. He reaches up and brushes his fingertips against it, wincing.

He knows why Malcolm did it. It’s obvious. If it weren’t for him, Trip probably would have given in to his impulsive anger and lunged at that mad alien woman, and maybe she’d have made good her promise or maybe she wouldn’t, but he’s glad he never has to find out.

Something bangs faintly, echoing along the walls. Trip’s head snaps up. In the past three hours, no one has come by, and he’s been left in painful silence since.

Another sound – footsteps. Drawing nearer. Trip scrambles to the glass. The lights are dim, fading to darkness on either side, but he can just about see a sliver of light through the crack of the door at the end. Heart in his throat, he waits.

A minute passes. Two. He’s about to step away, thinking the noises he heard were unrelated, when that door slides open and two Tilonians step through, their blue uniforms identical to the ones Trip has seen before save for white patches on the shoulders. He wonders what it stands for, but doesn’t wonder for long, for he’s just noticed the limp figure they’re carrying between them.

Malcolm.

“What the hell’ve you done to him?!” The words rip from his throat before he can stop himself. One of the Tilonians gives him a curious look; the other remains impassive. Neither of them says anything.

Just like before when Malcolm was taken from him, the glass splits in two, and Malcolm is shoved through. Trip catches the man’s unconscious form, gently lowering him to the ground. The glass closes back up seamlessly.

“Malcolm?” he whispers, knowing full well his friend can’t hear him. He cups Malcolm’s head, feels his neck for a pulse and exhales noisily when he finds one, even if it’s slower than he would have liked. One glance of Malcolm’s leg confirms that it’s gotten worse in just the three hours they were apart. He must have been forced to walk on it the entire way. The black marks Trip has against these people just keep on growing. 

Malcolm’s uniform is gone and he’s now in only the black shirt and pants they wear underneath. Trip feels something bulky underneath the shirt and gently undoes the buttons, then recoils in horror. Bandages are wound tightly around his entire upper torso, specks of blood staining starkly against the white. Heart. The thought from months past echoes. Something’s wrong with his heart.

He looks up. To his surprise, the Tilonians are still standing there, regarding him with a strange mixture of curiosity and aloofness. “What’ve you done to him?” Trip hears himself repeat.

They don’t answer him, but they do speak for the first time – the one who doesn’t look like he’d rather be elsewhere does, anyway. “Someone will be by with provisions for you soon,” he says. Then with a nod to his companion, they begin to walk away.

“Wha- hey!” Still cradling Malcolm’s head in his lap, Trip shuffles forward, raises his voice in a desperate attempt to be heard. “Fuckin’ bastards! You won’t lay another finger on him, you hear? An’ I don’t care if you kill me for it!”

They don’t even turn around.

Trip spends the next hour or so fretting over Malcolm, checking his pulse and breathing every five minutes just to make sure he’s still alive. The Lieutenant may be unconscious but his rest is not peaceful – sometimes he twitches, winces, mutters things Trip can’t make out but by the tone of his voice don’t sound like anything good. Trip reassures him best he can, and though his words appear to have a soothing affect he still feels useless.

He doesn’t remove the bandages. He doesn’t want to see what’s under them.

Malcolm wakes up another half hour later. His movements are slow and sluggish, like he doesn’t have full control over his body, and his eyes are glazed. They stare at a point far beyond past Trip’s head. For one horrible moment Trip expects the worst.

Then those grey eyes focus in and land on his own blue ones and a ghost of a smile flickers on Malcolm’s pale lips. “C’mmander.”

“Hey.” Trip touches his shoulder tentatively, wanting to show him that he’s there but also not wanting to hurt him. “You okay?”

Malcolm laughs at this, breathy and mirthlessly. “No.”

Trip tries not to show his shock. “I should have expected that,” he whispers. Except he didn’t, because Malcolm is never so brutally honest when asked if he's okay. He always answers with some variation of ‘fine’ – which means that he's either drugged, too exhausted to lie, or close to death.

Trip is obviously less skilled at hiding his emotions than he thought because Malcolm suddenly frowns and reaches out, maybe aiming for Trip’s hand but grabbing his elbow instead. “It was worse before,” he says, then, pulling a face, amends, “I mean, it’s not so bad now.”

“That don’t make me feel any better,” Trip admits. He helps Malcolm sit up, lean against the wall, and is heartened slightly when the Lieutenant makes weak attempts to resist. That’s more like the Malcolm Reed I know. They sit in silence for a few minutes, the only sound being Malcolm’s ragged, uneven breathing. Trip wants to ask what happened but he can’t find the words. Anyway, what right does he have to ask in the first place? Wouldn’t that just make things worse?

Malcolm draws in a shaky breath, “I don’t think these are the same people as last time.”

“You said that before.”

“I know.” He shifts and winces when he hits a sore spot, but he seems to be regaining control of his limbs again. “This time I’m sure. They mentioned a device, information, and destroying a ship to get it. A part of it.” His hand curls against his chest, unconsciously. “Trip, I… I think that thing on my heart was the device they were looking for.”

Trip’s stomach drops. “What?”

“Why else would they need to- to cut me open?” His voice catches and his eyes snap shut. “Bloody hell- fuck- I-”

“Hey, hey.” Trip grabs Malcom’s forearms gently and leans in close. “Breathe. Shit. Lemme tell you, Mal, when Enterprise finds us, I’m tellin’ Archer to blow these guys to pieces. And I’m gonna make him let you press the buttons that cause it.”

To his surprise, Malcolm closes the gap between them and rests his head on Trip’s shoulders, his own body trembling, breathing unevenly, and he must be trying not to cry. Trip freezes up for only a moment before his hands come up on their own volition and come to rest on Malcolm’s back.

They stay like that until Malcolm’s breathing slows and he’s come back to himself enough to be characteristically embarrassed. He pulls away, doesn’t look Trip in the eye. “Sorry,” he mumbles, soft and unsure.

“Don’t mention it,” Trip says, because it’s the safest response.

Malcolm runs a hand across his eyes, which are now slightly red and shiny. He frowns. “Trip, I’m afraid they’re…” A brief moment of hesitation. “They’re not going to let us go just because they have the information they wanted.”

“Yeah, I figured,” says Trip bitterly.

Malcolm shakes his head, and for a moment Trip is confused. “No, I mean, there’s something else.” The Lieutenant averts his gaze but all around them are pale walls and pipes, and with the continuous ache in his chest he can’t help but be transported back, remembering things he’d rather not remember, so he focuses on Trip again. “Before I fell unconscious again. Something about brain wave patterns and connections, I don’t know.” To his mortification, he feels tremors begin in his hands, spreading up his arms, his shoulders, down his spine. He tries to take a deep breath. It doesn’t help.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Trip says hurriedly. “I don’t care about any of it. Well, that’s a lie, of course I fuckin’ care, but-” He cuts himself off.

Malcolm reaches one shaking hand up and clasps it over Trip’s, and offers as genuine a smile as he can manage. “I know what you mean. I appreciate it.”

A few minutes later, the promised provisions from earlier arrived, delivered to them personally by the Smirking Woman. She tosses circular packets of something that looks like granola bars at their feet before setting down a bucket of water and a towel as well. Her guard hovers over her shoulder, making sure neither of the prisoners makes a sudden move.

Not that they need to worry. Malcolm can barely stand, and Trip, well… as much as he’d like to rip her eyes out, he manages to control himself.

Before they leave, Smirking Woman turns to Trip, her expression surprisingly open. She looks simultaneously irritated at him and like a wolf on the prowl. Trip scowls at her. “What?”

“I just thought you should know that things have changed a bit,” she tells him with a mocking tone. “You’ll be glad to know that I no longer consider you easily disposable. Still, you should tread carefully, Commander. You humans have a tendency to care far more about each other than your own wellbeing, and such a thing is easily exploited. As you probably know.” Her smirk turns toothy. With a flick of her hair, she walks off, her guard trailing behind her.

No longer easily disposable. A chill runs down Trip’s spine. “What do you think she meant by that?” he asks his friend.

Malcolm looks at him. There’s fear in his eyes still, but it’s not the same. No; this fear is for him.

Chapter Text

Without their scanners, they have no way of knowing if the granola-bar-like provisions are safe for human consumption, something which clearly annoys Malcolm. Trip takes the plunge against the Lieutenant’s protests. He doesn’t think the aliens would poison them anyway. To his surprise, the food is deceptively soft and even tastes… well, not great, but at least it doesn’t make him want to gag.

Malcolm still doesn’t eat, though. Trip suspects it has more to do with just his paranoia. Fortunately, he does manage to get Malcolm to drink a bit of water, then drinks some himself and uses the rest to clean themselves up a bit.

Even though he doesn’t say anything, Trip knows that Malcolm’s leg is starting to really bug him. He sees the flash of pain in Malcolm’s eyes every time he shifts, hears the muffled grunts and squeaks that come out of his mouth. But aside from the bucket of water and the cloth they don’t have any medical supplies. Not even a mild painkiller.

So Trip sheds the top of his uniform and takes the sleeve, ripping the fabric into strips with his teeth. Malcolm watches him silently, doesn’t ask what he’s doing, maybe he already knows. He watches as Trip tries to make the strips as even as possible, then lays them out on the floor. “I’m gonna try and bandage yer leg,” the Commander says plainly.

"I'm not sure that'll do much good," Malcolm mutters.

"It's better than nothing."

After a moment, Malcolm nods and brandishes the broken limb without another word.

It’s been a while since Trip has done any emergency field medicine, and even longer since he took the Starfleet class, but he dusts off the memories from the back of his mind and by the time he’s done, he thinks he’s done a decent job. Then again, he's not the one dealing with the injury. “Feel all right?” he asks.

Malcolm gives a lopsided shrug. There are beads of perspiration on his forehead. “Wish we had some painkiller, but otherwise…” He trails off.

Trip doesn’t know what else to do, so he just nods. He thinks of Malcolm being forced to walk down sterile white halls, stumbling every time he puts weight on his foot, and the anger rises up all over again. If Enterprise doesn’t get here fast, I’ve half a mind to stage an escape of my own.

“Think we can sleep?” Trip cuts into the silence. Then, as if on cue, he yawns.

A smirk tugs at Malcolm’s lips. “We could probably take shifts. There’s no telling when they might come back for me, and I’d rather at least one of us be alert when it happens.”

When. Malcolm is no fool. His voice may be even but there’s still faint tremors wracking his shoulders, his hands. His eyes are slightly wild.

“I’ll take first watch,” says Trip, then when he sees Malcolm about to protest. “No exceptions. You’ve just been tortured, yer shakin’, and frankly, you look exhausted.”

Malcolm never did like being called out. He purses his lips, eyebrows furrowing and for a brief moment he looks like he’s going to argue, but then he sighs and nods. “All right. But wake me in three hours, or approximately.”

“Malcolm-”

“Trip.”

They use the same tone with each other, like parents warning a misbehaving child.

“Fine,” the engineer relents. “Three hours.” He gives a nod of reassurance as Malcolm settles against the wall as comfortably as he can, one leg stretched out in front of him and the other curled in, hands on his lap. He blinks languidly for a moment, then closes his eyes.

Three hours. It’s a good thing there’s no chronometer in here. Trip never was good at keeping time without one.

Trip dozes a bit. Were he awake, Malcolm would be horrified to learn this, but the Lieutenant is out like a light. Both men are thoroughly exhausted. Yet, even if he hadn’t promised to take watch, Trip can’t keep his eyes closed for long. Every time he begins to drift he hears the smirking Tilonian woman’s voice, taunting, mocking, and then a different voice that sounds familiar but that he can’t place telling him his time is almost up, and he jerks back to reality.

“No longer easily disposable.” Trip doesn’t have to dig deep to decipher a possible meaning. Something has changed; he’s not just a control subject anymore. A shiver runs up his spine and he curls in on himself, arms around his knees. He doesn’t want to believe it. Why would he be of interest? It wasn’t him they kidnapped all those months ago – it was Malcolm and Rivers and Hamaya.

Absently, Trip wonders if the young medical ensign is all right. Surely he didn't get caught up in all this again too, right? He hasn't seen him, but he's not sure if he should let himself hope.

Beside him, Malcolm begins to stir. His face twists, he mumbles something incoherent – then all of a sudden his eyes fly open and he startles upright, breathing heavily.

“Hey, hey!” Trip holds his hands up, musters up the calmest voice he can despite his wandering thoughts of doom. “Yer okay. Yer…” Damn, he was about to say ‘safe’ but of course they aren’t safe, are they? “Yer with me.”

Malcolm looks to him, nods slowly. “Yes,” he breaths. “Yes, quite right.” He begins to unfurl himself, hissing between clenched teeth and a hand goes flying up to the back of his neck. “Wonder if they could be so kind as to give us an upgrade on the accommodation,” he bites out.

The corner of Trip’s mouth quirks upwards. “Well, you can ask, but they may be all booked.”

“A shame.” Malcolm rolls his shoulders. “Did I miss anything?”

“All’s quiet,” Trip says.

Which is when he hears the door at the end of the hall slide open, contradicting his words.

“Ah, sunnovabitch.”

Instinctively, Trip shuffles further in front of Malcolm, as if to shield him from sight even though he knows how useless it is. Malcolm lays a hand on his shoulder, maybe in a gesture of solidarity or because he’s more frightened than he’d care to admit. They both wait with pounding hearts during those anxious seconds until a single Tilonian come to stop in front of their cell. Like the ones that brought Malcolm back, their uniform is blue with white patches on the shoulders.

“I come for the engineer,” the Tilonian says, and their voice is high enough that Trip decides they’re probably female. Her eyes bore straight into him. “This will go easier if you don’t resist.”

A beat passes. Swallowing thickly, Trip deliberately begins to detangle himself from Malcolm, as the Lieutenant voices his outrage.

“Him? Why do you want him? I thought it was me you were after! What interest does he hold for- Trip, what are you doing?!”

The Tilonian does not answer any of these questions. Her expression remains impassive, just like the others, and Trip vaguely wonders if they’re all zombies or something.

“Stand down, Lieutenant,” Trip says, getting to his feet. “That’s an order.”

Malcolm gazes up at him. His grey eyes hold so much emotion, uncharacteristically open – anger, confusion, despair. Still, though, he nods, and his voice is thick when he utters, “Aye, sir.”

It takes all of his strength not to lash out, try to overpower the Tilonian, and he wonders if this is what Malcolm felt earlier as he was taken away – this grinding rage and defeat. He could probably snap her fragile neck so, so easily, but then, what would he do next? There’s no weapon on her person he can take. He doesn’t know how to unlock the cell door. He doesn’t even know his way around this fucking place!

He looks back at Malcolm before the door shuts behind him. Malcolm is still curled up in the corner, staring at some point far off.

The Tilonian woman doesn’t speak as she leads him down the hall with a deceptively strong grip on his arm. She moves so fast he ends up stumbling over his own feet as she drags him. Finally, they reach an ordinary white door, which she unlocks using a pin pad, fingers just a blur. He can’t make out the code. She shoves him through with no gentleness or ceremony.

The room is… not what he was expecting, that’s for sure. Trip expected the same sterileness, a lab, a handful of torture devices. No, this room looks laughably quaint. Dark grey walls and ceiling, counters on the right and left wall with a sink attached to one, and a single chair in the middle. A throne, he thinks ruefully. Probably for him.

There are four Tilonians in the room, including the one who took him here. She joins her colleagues and pours over some PADD, talking to herself under her breath in her own language.

“Sit,” commands one of the Tilonians, pointing at the chair.

Well, he was right about that part, anyway.

“What if I don’t want to?” Trip challenges.

Two of the Tilonians look at each other; one sighs. “I’d rather not hurt your friend needlessly, but if you insist on being contrary…”

The threat on Malcolm’s welfare stops Trip cold. “You humans care more about each other than your own wellbeing, and such a thing is easily exploited.” Dammit! With a low growl, he flops into the chair. Almost immediately, straps come up, encircling his wrists, and one of the aliens kneels down to tie some around his ankles. Trip struggles experimentally. They hold.

“Well, what’s it gonna be?” He tries to keep his anxiety under control, but a slight wobble seeps into his voice anyway. “What kinda torture d’you have planned?”

They don’t answer him. Circular metallic devices are placed at the base of his neck, then one on his left temple. He can’t help but reflexively jerk away – they’re rather cold against his skin – and is given a look of reproach that almost sends him into hysterics. “Ya look exactly like my mom did when I got caught rollin’ around in the mud in my good clothes!”

“Could someone shut him up?” mumbles the woman who brought him here, and suddenly there’s a sting as someone backhands him across the face.

In the time it takes Trip to reorient himself, the atmosphere in the room has changed. Three of the aliens are staring at him, PADDs at the ready, and the fourth has his hands hovering over a set of controls that have suddenly appeared on the counter. “Are we ready to proceed?” he asks.

The three nod unanimously. It’s eerie. Like that one movie-

Something zips up his spine, sending a cold sensation blossoming throughout his head. Trip jerks in surprise; not in pain, because it doesn’t hurt, but it does feel… what does it feel like? Ah, yes, ‘odd’ that’s what he was going to say.

Say? Think. He can’t keep his thoughts straight all of a sudden. Hah. Straight. I sure as hell ain’t-

The world tips sideways. The floor blurs, he feels like he’s on a roller coaster. But that can’t be right – he’s strapped to a chair, under the scrutiny of aliens. A prisoner. Test subject. Lab rat. He isn’t moving. No, he concludes, it’s the world that’s-

Another wave of vertigo and he has to suppress the urge to vomit. He can’t… his head is scrambled… what was he just…?

“How intriguing,” says a voice from somewhere far off. It echoes in his ears. “Try the other mode. I want to see how it reacts with his physiology.”

The spinning stops abruptly. He still feels sick, but at least he can see… no, his vision is still blurry, he can’t make out anything but abstract shapes. Something spikes through his head and he doubles over with a moan.

“See if you can… connection…” The voices are beginning to fade out. He feels a jolt of something, not pain. All of a sudden, he is weightless, floating. The world shifts and twists around him but he can’t make out any distinct form, but through it all he thinks… he swears he can…

A comforting presence. Not far off. The image begins to strengthen, gaining clarity. He reaches for it, and it slips through his fingers.

Trip returns to reality with a harsh intake of breath. He’s still strapped down to the chair. His head aches something fierce and his fingers are unusually stiff. The Tilonians chatter amongst themselves, thoroughly ignoring his presence. That’s fine with him. He needs a moment anyway; why does he feel so disoriented and detached?

“You can return him now,” someone says, and then there are hands on him, releasing the restraints around his wrists and ankles. “We’ll proceed further tomorrow.”

He falls forward, unable to take his own weight. The fact is humiliating. Someone, a blur of blue and white and black, grabs him and hauls him unceremoniously into a fireman’s carry, and the sudden, jarring movement is enough to send Trip back into confusing oblivion.

Chapter Text

The world is fuzzy when Trip wakes up. He opens his eyes sluggishly, frowns, his limbs feeling like dead weights. There’s an odd feeling in his head, a dull ache. He lifts his hand and it feels like it’s going far too slow. The world is going too slow.

He smacks himself in the face. A small groan escapes his lips and suddenly there’s movement in the corner of his eye, and an indistinct dark shape appears in his field of vision. A warm hand on his shoulder. “Trip?”

Trip pries his eyes open further. “Malcolm?” The surface beneath him is hard. Not his bed. He must have fallen out of it, then. “Where’re you?”

Malcolm is silent for a moment. Then, in an oddly quiet voice, he says, “I’m right in front of you.”

A few blinks later, Trip’s vision has cleared considerably, and he realizes that the shape in his vision was Malcolm. “Ah, ofc’rse.” The words come out as one. “Y’can’t sleep like that, cannya?”

More silence. Malcolm’s grip tightens on his shoulder, and his lips purse together to form a thin line. “Commander, do you know where you are?”

“Enterprise,” Trip answers immediately, then seeing Malcolm’s frown, pauses. “…Not Enterprise?”

No, not Enterprise. Now that he can see properly, he realises that he’s not on the ship he’s called home for the past seven years, let alone in his room. The ceiling isn’t the familiar nondescript grey he’s used to. It’s a pale beige colour, with pipes running along the ceiling –

Suddenly he can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. The air is too thin, he brings a hand to bunch at the fabric at his chest and he twists around, ends up on his hands on knees and starts to gag. Malcolm hovers close and watches him in alarm.

It passes within the minute. Trip sits back on his heels and takes a deep breath. Along with the air returning, he’s also recalled the events of the past few days – most of them, anyway. The last few hours (if it has only been hours) are still confusing and vague. He turns to Malcolm and offers a wobbly, weak smile. “I’m okay now.”

Malcolm doesn’t look convinced, but nods anyway. “I was worried you had another concussion.”

“Well, I have a bit of a headache, and this ain’t a concussion, I can assure you.”

“Ah.”

Trip frowns. “Something wrong?”

Malcolm’s eyes flick between Trip and some point on the far wall, and he shakes his head. “No. It’s just a coincidence, I’m sure.” A pause. “I have a headache too. It started sometime after they took you. What did they…?” The segue into a new topic is half-hearted and rough, but Trip takes it anyway.

“Actually, I’m not sure.” He shrugs. “They didn’t… harm me physically. I don’t think so, anyway.” He checks himself over just to make sure, satisfied when he finds nothing. “Honestly, it just feels like they took a blender to my brain or something. It’s mostly passed, but I still feel a bit…”

“Scrambled,” Malcolm finishes for him.

“Yeah.”

The two are silent for a moment. Then Malcolm brings one knee up and rests his elbow on it, chin on a fist. It’s clearly an attempt to look relaxed, but Trip can see in his tense shoulders and clenched jaw that he’s anything but. “Well, we should assume they’ll be back for one of us soon.” The Lieutenant’s voice is empty. Resigned.

Trip feels a combination of fury and guilt stir in his chest. “They’d better come for me, because I’m not lettin’ them lay a hand on you.”

“You keep saying that-” Malcolm sits up “-but it’s not going to change anything, nor is it helpful. I’m not an invalid, Trip, I don’t need you watching over me.” Now there’s inflection in his voice, but it’s snapped, irritated. Trip draws back, reminded of Malcom’s sudden quick temper change back in the shuttlepod. The way he gets when he’s stressed.

“Sorry,” Trip mutters. “I know that.”

Malcolm’s expression softens. “No, I’m sorry. I know you’re trying to help. It’s just, there’s really nothing you can do. Either of us can do. I don’t know what they want exactly but it’s clear they won’t stop until they get it. No matter what.”

“I know,” Trip says again. “But I don’t want to feel useless. I don’t like it.”

Malcolm’s expression softens. “You’re not useless. I think this is just a hopeless situation.”

It’s an easy opening. Trip swears he does it on purpose. “Yer such a pessimist.”

“Realist,” Malcolm corrects, the slightest of smiles on his lips.

The coordinates are right, but the supposed research station that’s projecting on the viewscreen looks like a mere hunk of abandoned metal floating among the void of space. Archer frowns and turns to T’Pol. “Any readings?”

The science officer shakes her head. “No bio-signs, Captain.” Her brow furrows slightly. “However,… there is something odd I am picking up. It’s very slight.”

“What kind of ‘something’?” Archer prods gently.

“I cannot be more specific at this time.” T’Pol’s focus is narrowed to her console. She looks as puzzled as a Vulcan can be. “If you may allow me a few moments, Captain…”

“Of course.” Archer nods and turns to Travis at the helm. The Ensign is also bent over his console, clearly double checking the readings, before he turns to his captain and shrugs.

Archer doesn’t like waiting. He never has. His hands itch to do something, and he ends up pacing across the deck, anxiously glancing between the viewscreen, T’Pol, and the tactical station, where Ensign Meng has temporarily taken Malcolm’s place.

Again.

Finally, T’Pol calls his attention on her. The bridge is tense, everyone holding their breath as Archer leans over her shoulder to read what she’s discovered. His eyes grow wide. He looks back up at the viewscreen. “Some kind of cloaking barrier masking their bio-signs. How do we get rid of it?”

“We don’t have to,” T’Pol says. “As far as I can tell, Captain, it is not preventing us from sending any messages, nor is it preventing them from receiving any.”

Archer returns to his place at the centre of the bridge, but he doesn’t sit down. “Hoshi,” he says carefully, locking eyes with the linguist, “open a channel.” The short chime resonates around the suddenly silent room and Archer takes a deep breath. “My name is Captain Archer of the Starship Enterprise,” he begins, the standard greeting. “I assure you that we’re friendly. I just have a few questions for you.”

There’s no response for one long minute. Just as he’s about to repeat himself, the comm. suddenly crackles to life.

“Leave.” A lone word, slightly garbled yet no less commanding.

“Is this the Tilonian research station I’ve been told about?” Archer asks, though he already knows the answer.

“Leave.” There’s more force behind it now.

Archer sighs, his shoulders sagging.  “I can’t do that.” When no further response comes, he glances at Hoshi, and her nod confirms the channel is still open. “I’ve come to request your help,” he continues as diplomatically as possible. “Three members of my crew have been… taken… by a member of one of your factions. I-”

“We can’t help you,” the voice interrupts, hurried.

“Well, I was told you could.” Archer paces slowly, comes up at the tactical station and leans an arm against it. “A man who called himself Sanuv gave us these coordinates and told us you had some information about the faction that took my men.”

Suddenly the viewscreen flickers before a slightly grainy image of a Tilonian woman comes into view. Her hair is red, cut short, and her eyes are bright green. She’s scowling. “I assume Sanuv has been compromised, then. I repeat, we cannot help you, and if you have come to destroy us then go ahead and do so. We have nothing important here.”

“I don’t want to destroy you.” Archer comes up closer to the screen. “And Sanuv wasn’t compromised. Last I saw him he was injured but very much alive, I assure you.”

The woman’s eyes widen, her commander mask dropping momentarily. “Injured. You injured him?”

“Not us!” Travis exclaims, then looks a bit sheepish for his outburst.

“What he said.” Archer places a hand on the helmsman’s shoulder. “They have a colony on some planet light years from here. They were attacked by the very same faction who apparently took my men.” He pauses. “He told us you’d know how to track them.”

The woman scrutinizes him before barking something in a foreign tongue over her shoulder, another faint voice shouting in response. There’s a scramble, and another Tilonian appears seconds later, brandishing a PADD-like device when he shows her. Completely ignoring the aliens on her screen, she studies the PADD instead, nods, then finally looks back up. “Your ship schematic is unfamiliar, and you aren’t Tilonian. You’re not allied with either the Ostaian or Kriyrf factions?”

Slowly, Archer shakes his head. “Not at all.”

“I believe you.” She places the PADD down on her desk and the other Tilonian scurries out of frame. “I’m Myrin Saf, I’m the director of this research station. I think I can help, but you’ll have to come to me.”

“As long as I can bring a security detail,” Archer says, glancing at Meng out of the corner of his eye. He states this rather warily and is surprised when Myrin immediately nods her head.

“I wouldn’t expect otherwise. We’ll have our own security detail escorting you at all times.”

The transmission is cut off abruptly, leaving Hoshi and Travis looking at each other, baffled, as Archer lets out a sigh of relief. “That went better than I expected.” He allows himself the smallest of smiles before sobering once more. “Meng, choose two of the best from your team and meet me in shuttle bay one. Travis, you’re flying. Hoshi, tell Phlox to join us in shuttle bay one.”

With a chorus of “yes, sir’s, the crewmen assume their duties.

If Archer were timing, it would probably be the fastest anyone has gotten ready. There’s a constant sense of urgency throughout the ship; not only are they missing three officers, but with the knowledge that the region of space they are in is potentially hostile, everyone is on high alert. Meng has two phase pistols attached to her hip, and the MACO soldier Azar is clutching a pulse rifle like his life depends on it. Travis seems slightly jumpy even as he clambers into the pilot’s seat to get the preliminary flight checks out of the way.

“If I may, sir,” Meng says, “we should be on high alert when we go over there. These are still unknown, potentially dangerous aliens.”

It’s an obvious statement. Archer wonders with a bit of wry humour if Malcolm developed some sort of “state the obvious” protocol to combat the captain’s previous naïve nature. “Noted, Ensign.”

“We’re ready, sir,” Travis announces.

At first they don’t know where to dock, the outside of the station looking as decrepit as ever. However, Travis points out a light blinking on one side, looks like it could be a hatch, he says. They fly towards it and as soon as they are close enough it activates automatically, pulling the shuttlepod against it. Travis’ hands come off the controls. He looks vaguely displeased.

Archer is the first off the shuttlepod, Meng and Azar at his side with their weapons pointed at the docking bay door. It slides open, revealing Myrin and exactly three other aliens holding weapons in the exact same way as Archer’s own security team. Compared to the outside, the inside of the station is bright and clean.

Myrin looks up at him and blinks. “You’re a rather tall species, aren’t you?”

Okay, not the greeting he was expecting. Behind him, Travis stifles laughter.

“…Depends on who you ask.” He extends a hand. “I’m Captain Archer of Enterprise.”

She looks at his hand, then back up at him. Her gaze drifts to the group behind him. “Oh, you’re not all the same. You have a Denobulan.”

The corner of Phlox’s lips twitch and he steps forward. “Indeed. I’m the doctor aboard their ship, my name is Phlox.”

At the word doctor, Myrin’s face lights up and she visibly relaxes. “Ah, splendid! It’s a pain trying to explain science and medical stuff to those who don’t have the slightest clue what you’re talking about, isn’t it?” She doesn’t wait for a response. “Please, follow me. We can talk in my office.”

If he’s being honest, Archer is a little bit offput by the alien woman’s sudden shift in demeanor. Wary and closed off at first, she’s now treating this like a meeting between friends. He glances at Travis, who shrugs, and then at Meng, who narrows her eyes at Myrin distrustfully. Phlox still looks rather nervous, perhaps at being identified by his species.

But at least they aren’t being shot at or chased off. Archer regards this as a win, so, with only a slight bit of hesitancy, he takes a step forward.

On the inside, the place really does look more like a research station. Clean, white walls with glass doors revealing stocked up labs with alien technology that Archer thinks with a heavy heart Trip would love to take apart. A few Tilonians stop and gawk at them, one even halts dead in their tracks before spinning on their heel and running in the opposite direction. It’s almost like they’re as jumpy as Archer’s team is.

Finally, they are led into a small room that looks much like the captain’s ready room. Two of Myrin’s security men dropped off along the way and she is accompanied by a lone alien with a small gun who shifts restlessly from foot to foot.

“So, what do you want to know?” Myrin moves behind the desk but doesn’t sit down.

Archer opens his mouth, hesitates. “Any and all information you may have,” he answers.

Myrin hums. “Regrettably, not a lot. You said some of your crew were… taken by them?”

“Last year, we were attacked and three of my men were assumed dead. We learned two were still alive and rescued them.” He doesn’t go into more detail. “It seems it’s happened again. Two of them were the same who went missing last year; one just had the misfortune of… being in the wrong place at the wrong time. We don’t know where they are now. That’s what we need to find out.”

“I see.” Myrin nods. “You were lucky to get them back the first time. And you’re sure it’s the Ostaian faction who did this?”

“That’s what we were told.” Information from strange aliens is not always reliable, but they have nothing else to go on.

“It’s likely correct.” Myrin’s face darkens. “The Ostaian faction are ruthless false scientists, twisting what it means to be such into something horrible. It’s been rumoured that they’ve been capturing aliens to experiment torture techniques with, but I le- I hadn’t seen it myself.”

Torture. Deep down, they all knew, but hearing it spoken out loud makes Archer feel sick. “…Is there anything else you can tell us?”

Myrin’s attention turns to Phlox. The doctor looks a little uncomfortable at being under scrutiny. “What were the condition of your men when they were returned the first time?”

“Doctor-patient confidentiality prevents me from sharing any such information with those not closest to the patient.” Nervous and inexperienced at diplomacy as the Denobulan is, Phlox dutifully stands his ground with a defiant expression. “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you.”

“I understand.” Myrin leans against the desk. “I suspect their mental states were altered, right? You don’t have to tell me, I already know.” She pauses for a minute. “They likely will be again when you find them. You should be ready for a fight, and not just from the faction.”

“Are you saying they’ll try and turn my men on us?”

Myrin looks Archer dead in the eye. “I’m saying that they may not even recognise you by the time you get there. The Ostaian faction uses mind-altering technology, manipulation of the brain, most importantly the memory. Their goal is to eventually be able to extract valuable information from their subjects. This tends to have lasting effects.”

An uncomfortable, heavy silence hangs in the air. Meng’s eyes are on the floor, her fists clenched, and her breathing carefully regulated. Azar and Bocharov are exchanging nervous glances. Travis leans against the wall, looking pale, as Phlox touches a gentle hand to the helmsman’s shoulder.

“I’m not abandoning them,” Archer whispers.

“I’m not saying you should.” The intensity is gone from Myrin’s voice. “I’m preparing you for what you may find when you get there.”

“I still don’t know where they are!” the captain snaps. “I need to- do you know where they are? Where can I find them?”

Myrin’s security guard shifts as if to move forward but he’s stopped by the scientist. She surveys Archer carefully. “I’m sorry, I don’t know their exact position,” she tells him. “But I can give you probable locations, as well as what warp signature to look for. They have technology to mask it but I know how to reveal it.”

“How do you know all this?” Meng asks suddenly, uncharacteristically not asking permission from her captain. “How can we trust you?”

There’s no hesitancy in Myrin’s voice as she says: “I used to be part of them. We all were.”

Azar’s rifle comes up. Myrin’s security guard does the same, but Myrin holds up hand while Archer places his own over top of Azar’s rifle. It’s a staring match for a good few seconds.

“We were all part of factions such as the Ostaian or Kriyrf, but we aren’t anymore, I assure you. Our species has been locked in war for decades. Factions battle for power, and our government is in shambles. Anyone not already in a faction gets swallowed up by the most ruthless of them. We managed to escape with barely our lives, and now live at safe havens such as this research station or Sanuv’s settlement.” Myrin narrows her eyes. “We aren’t your enemy.”

Archer takes a deep breath. “I know,” he says. “And I thank you for the help you’ve given so far. We won’t disturb you any further.”

Myrin nods.

A few minutes later, a PADD with the information they need is in Archer’s hands and they are walking back to the shuttlepod. The rest of the team goes first and Archer hangs back to thank Myrin one last time as well as promise that their location is safe. Myrin smiles. “You have our thanks. I hope you find your men, Captain Archer of Enterprise.”

Back on the ship, Archer hands the information to an awaiting T’Pol, telling her it’s top priority. Meng, Azar, and Bocharov return to the armoury, Travis to the bridge, and Archer walks along with Phlox to sickbay. Once there, he confesses, “What Myrin said has me worried.”

“No doubt,” Phlox replies as he fusses about with his bat half-heartedly. “Your worries are warranted.”

“We barely got them back last time.” Archer clasps his hands behind his head and begins to pace. “Hamaya was as jumpy as a rabbit, Malcolm was in a coma we barely got him out of. Rivers was long dead. How do we know we’ll… How do we know they won’t…?” He trails off, scared to even speak the words as if that will somehow will them into existence.

Phlox gives him a grim look. “I know,” he says. “I wish I could offer any comfort at all, Captain, but it’s not in my nature to lie without benefit. All I can offer is my promise that I will do my best to assist Mr Reed, Mr Tucker, and Mr Hamaya in whatever may ail them. When we find them.”

The words are firm, spoken with determination. Archer gives a nod. Somewhere deep down, he’s disappointed in himself that he’s not able to offer the same hopeful assurance.

Chapter Text

“Headache still bothering you?”

Without opening his tightly screwed eyes, Trip nods. “Yeah.” His non-broken fingers come up to rub at his temples, but it does nothing to ease the hammering within his skull, a pain which started mild when he woke up back in the cell but has steadily increased in intensity as time went on. How much time he can’t be sure of, but he guesses it’s been anywhere between six and ten hours.

Excluding the time he spent unconscious. Malcolm tells him it wasn’t long, fortunately.

There isn’t much to do in the small room they find themselves captors in. Actually, there isn’t anything to do at all. When they aren’t taking shifts sleeping they pass the time by talking about inconsequential things like T’Pol’s lunar survey a few months ago or what Chef could possibly be hiding in that third cabinet in the kitchen he keeps locked at all times. Nothing important in case the aliens are listening in. They don’t even dare whisper, fearful of just how advanced the technology is.

It restricts them severely. No way to escape, though their thorough preliminary investigation when they were first brought here already proved that. Small talk has never been Malcolm’s forte, and Trip has a habit of nervous-rambling, so the combination makes for some awkward pauses at times. On top of that, they both know that deep down the talking is just a pathetic distraction from the reality of their situation.

A reality Malcolm makes no move to shy away from, and Trip does his darndest not to think about.

“They did something to you,” the lieutenant is saying, a frown tugging at his lips. “You woke up confused, didn’t know where you were… the headaches could be a lasting effect of whatever they did.”

“Thanks, Captain Obvious,” Trip huffs, finally opening his eyes and with wry amusement he thinks that the dim light in their dingy cell actually helps him in this case. “I’m not dumb, I kinda figured that out already.”

Malcolm ducks his gaze. “I never said you were dumb.”

Trip sighs. “I know.”

And then settles one of the aforementioned awkward silences as the two men sit side by side, shoulders touching, and for some reason Trip swears his headache lessens slightly just from the contact. He doesn’t have much time to dwell on it, because another thought – more like a realisation – has occurred to him. “Mal, yer shakin’.”

The lieutenant’s lips purse into a thin line. “Perhaps.”

It’s more like tremors wracking his slight frame than shivers from cold, really, even though the cell is freezing. Malcolm’s always dealt with the cold better than he has, given that Trip is used to winters hovering anywhere between ten and fifteen degrees Celsius.

He’s getting off track.

“Have you eaten much?” Trip ventures.

His friend shakes his head. “I couldn’t… really stomach anything. You did make me drink some water, though.”

Oh. “I don’t remember that.”

At that, Malcolm gives him a look. Whatever’s on his mind he doesn’t speak out loud, instead saying, “No one’s been by to give us any more food yet, have they?”

“Or water.” Trip runs his dry tongue across his lips. The last of the water was given to him after he was returned, forced down his throat by the lieutenant as if he were a petulant child. The empty bucket they’ve repurposed for more unpleasant things, including when Trip is occasionally hit with a bout of nausea.

Malcolm curls in tighter around himself, his broken leg excluded, and in the process shifts away from Trip. The headache sets back in. He opens his mouth, almost asks Malcolm to move closer again but stops himself. How pathetic does that sound? Even if it’s the truth – at least he thinks it is – how will that make him look? Besides, and his inner voice sounds just a bit like Phlox here, it’s probably psychological. Of course the presence of his best friend makes him feel better.

Down the hall, unseen, a familiar door creaks open. Trip’s shoulders tense and his inner turmoil about inching closer to Malcolm is lost when Malcolm places a hand on his arm anyway.

The alien who shows up is the same one who took Trip the day previous, but she’s now armed with a pistol at her hip. She unholsters it as the glass separates. “The other one,” is all she says in the same robotic voice.

Trip decides to play stupid, if just to buy them some time. “’s that me?”

She doesn’t take the bait, just stares at them impassively. That gun is aimed right at Trip’s head.

He can’t do anything as Malcolm stands unsteadily. Making him walk on a broken leg – they can’t at least give the man some sort of support? As if what they’re doing isn’t bad enough-

A spike of pain cuts off his train of thought.

There is no voice calling out his name as he exits the cell. No one telling him to stop, come back, protesting his leave.

He’s somewhat relieved at this.

He can, however, feel those piercing blue eyes full of regret at his back. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a hand reach out towards him only to falter and drop down limply. Trip looks unsure. Defeated.

Malcolm turns away.

He’s lead to a room quite unlike the one he was first in, this one is simplistic with dark walls, and for a moment he’s somewhat relieved, until he fully takes in his surroundings. His heart leaps to his throat; his steps falter. It’s almost like…

Lying immobilized, movement around him-

Voices speaking in both English and some foreign tongue he’s never heard before-

A cry of his name and suddenly he’s on Enterprise and Trip is looking at him worriedly-

And he- he can’t breathe-

With no gentleness he is shoved forward and sat down front and centre like a monkey on display as these aliens – the same ones; at least they look the same, and it’s too similar – run scanners over him and jot down notes. “The condition of his leg is noticeably worse than before,” one of them mutters.

Yeah, Malcolm thinks, because it hasn’t been treated properly, but he can’t force the words through his dry throat.

This continues on for a good few more minutes, each second ticking by with Malcolm getting more and more anxious, tense, as he wonders what’s going on, what’s going to happen, how did he get himself in this situation in the first place? He should have fought them, refused to just be escorted to his own doom.

But then, they probably would have killed you or Trip.

Something lights up out of the corner of his eye that has the aliens mumbling in intrigue but he barely registers it.

Trip’s here because of him. Trip’s here because the man was utterly foolish and tried to protect him, when that was Malcolm’s job.

Trip’s only here because Malcolm wasn’t strong enough to protect himself.

He blinks. Suddenly there’s something cold at his neck and he reaches up to touch it only to find his arms are restrained. His heart pounds in his ears as he struggles fruitlessly against the restraints they managed to get around him when he wasn’t paying attention. His vision swims, tilts. Something is wrong, a nagging feeling in the back of his head he can’t pinpoint.

A voice, somewhere far off, echoing, “That’s odd.”

What’s odd?

“How is he resisting it?”

“Impressive! Try turning it up.”

Wrong. The word thunders in his skull, painful, piercing. He doubles over.

It doesn’t stop.

A loud whistling sound, more like a screech, actually, like squeaky gears grinding together or nails down an old-fashioned chalkboard. He cries out in pain and promptly clenches his teeth to keep any more shameful noises from escaping him.

Please.

Something shimmers in front of him. An image. But it can’t be, because he has his eyes closed. Yet despite this he can see it form in front of him, abstract shapes warping into the familiar grey walls of the ship he's come to call home.

Stop.

Fear slams into him. He can taste it, but he isn’t sure what he has to be fearful for.

Please.

Something impacts his skull, blunt and sharp at the same time, and he begins to thrash in earnest against the binds that hold him down; he knows they’re there even if he can’t see them. His heart pounds in his ears. He feels like something is prodding into his mind, invasive, violating; he struggles against the intrusion with all his strength. And underneath it all is the fear, deep within him though distant at the same time, and a part of Malcolm wonders, strangely, if it even belongs to him.

STOP.

He opens his eyes suddenly just as he collapses forward like a sack of potatoes, every limb in his body aching and limp while his head feels like he’s just bashed it against the wall a few times. The pain that spikes up his injured leg is distant and detached. He worries for a moment that he’s going to face-plant when a pair of arms come up to catch him.

Time has skipped. He’s missed a lot, he gathers, because the last thing he remembers is being in that dark room with the aliens as they bustled around him, examined him, strapped him to a chair and placed circular devices on him-

No, wait, he doesn’t remember that. But he does? He screws his eyes shut. Everything is so confusing at the moment.

“Malcolm?” He feels as well as hears the word, low vibrations against his ear. His head is resting on someone’s chest. “Malcolm, can you hear me?”

“Mm,” Malcolm answers, which means I can.

But of course Trip doesn’t know that.

“Malcolm,” he says again, then, “Jesus Christ,” and Trip shifts away and Malcolm is leaning against a rough unyielding wall, but he can sense Trip is nearby, can feel the worry radiating off him, the fear-

Something sparks in the back of Malcolm’s mind. He cracks his eyes open into slits. “Trip?”

“Thank god.” Trip sighs heavily. “You’re… really out of it. I was worried you were gonna forget who I was and… I dunno, start attackin’ me or somethin’.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Christ, Malcolm. What the hell did they do to you?”

“Hmm,” says Malcolm, which of course means give me a minute but Trip doesn’t know that either.

“Well…” Trip looks around, seemingly scrambling for something to say. “I know you just got back but, you up for some food yet? They threw these in while I was in here.”

The mention of food makes Malcolm sick. Hands on his stomach, he hunches over and starts to retch, and there’s a bucket under his nose within seconds. With nothing in his stomach, all that comes up is bile. He feels marginally better afterwards, a little more lucid, but that may just be because he’s had time to recollect himself again. He opens his eyes fully and they land on Trip and a pang of inexplicit guilt twangs in his gut. He’s worried he’s going to throw up all over again but fortunately it passes.

He's only here because of me.

“Hey.” Trip frowns and reaches out to place a hand on his shoulder and Malcolm unconsciously leans into it. “Hey, don’t…”

“How long?” Malcolm asks.

“Were you gone for, you mean?”

Malcolm nods.

Trip chews on his lip for a moment. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. A few hours for sure. I wish I knew, but about two hours ago I got this awful headache and must have passed out…” He shakes his head and sighs and Malcolm sits up straighter. “You should rest. Whatever they did seems to be similar to what they did to me, and god knows how long I was out of it afterwards.”

“Trip…” But the words won’t come. His mouth moves soundlessly and Trip waits with the patience of a saint until Malcolm finally admits defeat. He’ll tell Trip tomorrow. Or whenever he wakes up. His entire body is rebelling against him now, his eyelids drooping, limbs going heavy. He doesn’t want to sleep but it appears he hasn’t much choice. He doesn’t even know what’s going on, what happened in the time he missed; his brain has been melted and tossed and turned around.

But Trip is here. Trip is in front of him smiling softly, lingering touches of worry behind it, and even though Trip shouldn’t be here – his fault, all his fault – the fact that he is is a comfort nonetheless.

Chapter Text

Five days. It’s been five days since they left the research station and still they have found nothing.

Archer stares down at his bowl of soup which suddenly doesn’t seem very appetizing anymore. Across the table, T’Pol looks up with a nearly imperceivable quirk of her brow. The room is silent. He’s actually forgotten why he asked her here in the first place.

Maybe because on Thursdays he usually eats lunch with Trip.

“I apologise,” he hears himself say. “I’m not very good company at the moment.”

“It’s understandable. I, myself, have felt… uneasy lately.” T’Pol picks delicately at her salad but doesn’t make a move to eat. Playing with her food – she’s picked up bad habits from being around humans. Archer would smile if he wasn’t being crushed under the weight of guilt and concern.

“The first set of coordinates were a dud,” he recalls with a sigh. Nothing but a scorched and empty planet with debris from long-abandoned satellites caught in the atmosphere. “And we have their warp signature but haven’t picked up any matching elements yet. Thinking about it, we really don’t have a lot to go off of, do we?”

Never one to mix words, T’Pol’s reply is simple. “No.”

Archer leans his elbows against the tables and exhales heavily, runs a hand through his hair. “Makes me wonder if we’ll ever find them again. I can’t help but feel that last time, we simply… got lucky.” And there was that whole thing with Trip, too, knowing things he shouldn’t have known, acting strangely, nothing which Archer brought up. He asked Phlox about it once, but the doctor had just said something about confidential information and that was the end of that.

T'Pol places her fork on the table. “I’ve learnt that humans often seek reassurance as opposed to logical advice in times like this,” she says smoothly.

“Is that your way of saying you think we won’t find them?”

“Of course not, Captain. In fact, I think our chance of locating them is quite high.” At Archer’s puzzled look, she straightens and continues, “Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed are both resourceful humans, and while they tend to act… impulsively when together, they are both intelligent and strong-willed. Also, humans have a tendency to rival Andorians in their stubbornness.” The look in her eye softens. “I will be greatly surprised if you give up without exhausting every possible avenue and then beyond.”

A smile tugs at the corners of Archer’s lips. “That’s the second time you’ve managed to raise my spirits now. Maybe we should consider making you morale officer.”

“I doubt I’d be suited to the position, Captain, but I’m glad to have helped.”

The moment is interrupted by the chirrup of the comm. Archer leans back in his chair and presses his thumb against the button, acknowledging the call.

“I’m sorry to disturb your lunch break, sir,” comes Travis’ voice. Noticeably more subdued than usual. Being close friends with Malcolm, the helmsman has lost some of his youthful cheer lately. “We’re closing in on the second set of coordinates Myrin Saf gave us. It looks like an asteroid field. Sensors aren’t detecting anything yet, but the asteroids contain some sort of ore that is disrupting scanners.”

In other words, something could be lurking just around the corner waiting for them. “I’m on my way. Get Ma- Meng from the armoury on the bridge just in case.” There’s a beat of silence before Travis responds and the communication disconnects with a click.

Where is he? He was just– he was just in the cell, nursing one of the worst headaches of his life. He felt sick. Nauseous. And then– then there was movement, he remembers movement. Was he– did he move?

No, it couldn’t have been him. He doesn’t have a body. He can’t move without a body, without legs.

I have legs, he realises sluggishly. And one of them is– it’s broken.

But it still wasn’t him moving. The walls were moving. The floor. Swaying, rocking, back and forth – like a crib, or a boat on an ocean. And he moved with them, stumbling, so in a way it had been him as well. Moving.

He isn’t moving now.

The world is still, silent. He still doesn’t know where he is. He should probably open his eyes to check, then. It takes much more effort than it should, but when his vision clears he’s met with a blank expanse of white for only a second, so quick he wonders if he imagined it, before his surroundings materialize into familiar grey metal.

Enterprise.

His breath catches. Stays stuck in his lungs and he coughs, sputters. Struggling to draw in air, he collapses to his knees, arms wrapped around his abdomen. The fall seems to take forever. There’s no pain when his knees slam against the deck plating.

He’s on Enterprise. But it’s not real.

He doesn’t know how he knows this. Maybe it’s the undefined shapes, the ephemeral glow around the edges. Maybe it’s the lead weight of his limbs reminiscent of his dreams. Is he dreaming? He doesn’t remember falling asleep – then again, it seems his memory is as untrustworthy as his surroundings, for he can’t seem to remember anything after being returned to the cell.

He doesn’t notice that he’s stopped trying to breathe. He doesn’t comprehend the stillness of his lungs nor the lack of any negative effects for it.

He was in the cell – with Trip. They were together. And they were – damn, what were they doing? Talking, but he can’t recall the words. That doesn’t matter now, anyway.

Where is Trip?

He opens his mouth to call the Commander’s name but no sound comes out. His voice has left him too, and in desperation he begins to hastily walk down the hall.

He’s not here, a voice in the back of his head says. This isn’t real, so he can’t be here.

He tells it to shut up. Fingers fumble before closing around the hilt of the phase pistol at his thigh. Trip has to be here, because he’s not in the cell, and he refuses to even consider the third option.

For an indeterminable amount of time, he wanders the halls with his hand firmly on his weapon, even though he hasn’t come across anyone hostile. He hasn’t come across anyone, actually. The emptiness of the ship brings back memories he can’t quite grasp, but they send shivers up his spine and make his skin crawl nonetheless. He still can’t speak, his voice apparently deserted him, so he makes use of his eyes and hearing in the search.

Not that they do much good.

He’s beginning to feel faint now. A tugging on his body coming from somewhere unseen. His legs are heavy and his right one is beginning to throb. His head spins. As he turns the corner, he trips on his own feet and falls forward.

And falls.

And falls.

The ground has vanished beneath him. He opens his eyes to an expanse of white. What was he just doing? Where is he? He was in the cell, then on Enterprise–

What’s happening to me? The thought cuts through the fog of his mind with startling clarity. Panic begins to well up in his chest, oddly distant.

An unfamiliar voice carries on non-existent wind and he struggles to hear the words. “This isn’t working.”

Solid ground materializes beneath his feet. He gropes for the phase pistol he suddenly doesn’t have and notices in shock that the sleeve of his uniform is torn and dirtied. When did that happen?

“Give it time. We’re only… the preliminary stages.”

“How much time? If we can’t… Relying on the results of this to go forward.”

The voices cut in and out as if through an old radio. No matter how hard Malcolm strains his ears he can’t make out the missing words; whoever the voices belong to seem to exist everywhere all at once.

“…too aware. Bring him out, we’ll try again later.”

A sudden white light blinds him.

Malcolm jerks awake with a gasp akin to a man tasting air for the first time. A few heavy breaths, his lungs expanding and contracting, and a sense of relief floods him though he doesn’t know what it’s for. He places a tentative hand on his chest and feels the movement beneath his palm.

For a moment he just lies there feeling strangely exhausted. His head is full of cobwebs, his body is light weight. Slowly, he begins to come back to himself enough to notice a few things that are different before. The lighting is brighter. The surface he’s lying on could almost be described as comfortable, a far cry from the rock-hard floor of the cell.

The cell. Trip.

Another sharp intake of air and Malcolm sits up, only vaguely surprised to discover he isn’t restrained. The room he’s in is different, grey walls with blank monitors, and he’s lying on a platform that best resembles one of the sickbay beds. The uniform on his right leg has been torn away from the knee and the broken limb has been bandaged and splinted, somewhat crudely but professionally. Malcolm reaches out hesitantly. It doesn’t even hurt that much anymore.

Were they rescued? No, he dismisses that thought immediately. His surroundings are different but still familiar in the worst kind of way. Besides, he doesn’t remember a rescue being staged. The last thing he remembers…

Malcolm frowns. He sifts through his memories, but the most he can conjure up is split-second images that fade almost immediately. The last thing he remembers clearly is being taken from Trip again, but that was… how long ago?

There’s no time for this. Gritting his teeth in determination, Malcolm swings his legs off the side of the bed. Wherever he is, he’s alone. They’ve left him alone. He should use that to his advantage.

He lets go of the bed and immediately almost collapses. His legs shake beneath his weight and the sudden change in position has caused his head to spin. He breathes deeply and concentrates on not throwing up. Hell. That’s what he feels like. From feeling moderately fine to like hell in a matter of seconds.

The shakiness doesn’t subside but it does lessen some. Once he regains enough of his strength to stand, he hobbles over to the wall like a drunk and uses it as a crutch to approach the door. The surface of it is a smooth reflective metal with no door handle. His warped reflection stares back at him.

His reflection looks like shit.

Malcolm smirks. Then shakes his head, he doesn’t need to get sidetracked. He’s having a hard enough time keeping his head on straight as it is.

Unfortunately, the room is devoid of anything that could be of any use. Unless one counted the fabric restraints on the bed that went apparently unused on him, but they’re firmly bound to the frame and Malcolm doesn’t see any use for them if he did manage to tug them free. Defeated, Malcolm leans against the wall, then slides down into a pathetic heap in the corner of the room.

There’s nothing to keep him preoccupied, and so his mind wanders in an inarticulate, disjointed fashion. The gaps in his memory worry him the most, as well as the possible state his friend could be in. If Malcolm’s locked up here with a head stuffed full of cotton wool, useless, barely able to stand on his own, where is Trip?

He’s still worrying over it when a wave of fatigue washes over him and despite his best efforts, his eyelids droop and his body goes limp. Just before he passes out, a pang of detached concern shoots through him, nearly enough to jar him back to consciousness.

But not quite.

Trip paces the cell like a caged animal, fingers alternating between picking at his sleeves and running through his hair. He must look like he’s stuck his finger in a power socket by now with how many times he’s done that.

They’d fallen into some horrible routine up until now. The Tilonians would come, take Trip, and Trip would feel fuzzy and out of touch for a few hours before coming back to himself. Then they’d take Malcolm and he’d come back the same way. Rinse and repeat a few times.

But at some point something changed. They kept Malcolm for longer, and it would take the Lieutenant more time to fully recover. They took Trip and brought him back within the hour and he always felt… well, not fine after, but at least he wouldn’t be tripping over thin air and spouting nonsense. Lately, he’d even begun to feel close to energized. Fidgeting restlessly, blabbering uncontrollably, his emotions less filtered. It began to get on Malcolm’s nerves.

Trip spins on his heel so hard he almost does a full circle. He growls through his teeth in frustration, slams his fist against the wall.

Malcolm still hasn’t returned. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since the Tilonians last took the still-slightly-drowsy Lieutenant out of the cell, and they had to practically carry him that time he couldn’t even hold his own weight. The expletives that came from Trip’s mouth…

It had been for nothing. They didn’t turn around or acknowledge him, and no one told him to watch his mouth lest he or Malcolm be punished for it.

Tired of pacing, Trip flops down cross-legged in the middle of the cell and ponders on the food they left behind for him roughly an hour ago. Still the same portions, which Trip allows himself to hope means Malcolm hasn’t been permanently moved. The Lieutenant is one of Trip’s few holds onto his sanity he has left.

That, and escape plans.

Which Trip is damned if he’s gonna get out of here without his friend, even if the Tilonians came by this moment and told him he was free to go.

He tries to eat though he isn’t really hungry, drinks some water to ease the headache a bit. Then he lies down on his side, one arm pillowed beneath his head, and closes his eyes.

He sleeps fitfully, as usual. His dreams, when they do come, are fleeting and confusing and tinted with a strange, terrifying red aura. He dreams of Enterprise, the ship rocking apart, blood staining the walls. He stares down at Captain Archer’s cold body, those green eyes empty and dim, but then the green turns to grey and now it’s Malcolm in front of him, hands clawing at his own eyes, screaming, begging stop, please stop.

Trip reaches out to touch him, radiating concern –

But then the ship lurches – when was he on a ship? – and he’s tossed overboard, waves crashing overhead, something weighing him down and his lungs hunger for air he can’t reach. He stretches his hand above his head, hoping, pleading, that someone will save him.

Fingertips brush against his. For just a moment, Trip swears he can sense Malcolm’s presence.

But when he’s jerked from the nightmares by his racing heart and raspy breathing, he finds the cell just as empty as before.

Chapter Text

Trip has barely seen anyone in what must be days. Sure, the aliens come by, and they leave food and water for him, but no one stops long enough to chat. Not that he really wants to speak with any of them anyway. He’s just so bored, his hands itch for something to do, his feet are sore from constant pacing, he begins muttering his thoughts out loud; and he wonders, just a little, if the lack of social interaction is going to drive him insane.

That is, if the worry doesn’t first. Or the anxiety-inducing waiting around for something bad to happen. Or all at once, Trip thinks, giggling to himself even though it isn’t funny. He tapers off into a sigh, bangs his head back against the wall once, twice. He curls his knees in and rests his chin on them. A few bleary blinks later, he’s dozing restlessly, teetering on the edge of consciousness with no intent to push himself over the edge. The constant nightmares are getting worse. Intense, vivid, and sometimes he wakes up and still thinks he’s trapped.

The worst ones are the ones that start out pleasant. He’s on Enterprise, and he’s sitting with T’Pol and Archer and they’re laughing while T’Pol does that eyebrow thing, but then Trip feels a strange wetness at his feet and he looks down to see the entire floor covered with water. Panic settles in his chest, foreign to him because of a childhood spent on beaches, and he scrambles to get away as the water gets higher, and Archer is laughing at him now, taunting him, while T’Pol nods in agreement with a twisted look in her eye.

He hasn’t fallen asleep, but Trip jerks back into the world by the sound of a creaking door. He’s learned by now not to expect much – probably just his daily rations of whatever-the-hell it is they feed him. He jumps to his feet anyway, his heart hammering.

And is rewarded by the sight of Malcolm being dragged between two Tilonians.

Well, maybe rewarded isn’t the right word considering the circumstances. A flood of relief washes over Trip anyway and he runs towards the glass, his friend’s name on his lips. He’s forced to step back when one of the aliens waves a gun in his face.

Malcolm is a deadweight. Trip staggers, even though it’s not the first time he’s had to catch Malcolm as he’s been thrown in, regaining his balance much quicker this time. He has no energy to shoot their captors his usual hateful glare, all his focus on the unconscious Lieutenant in his arms. He barely registers the bucket of water and the cloth one of them sets down just inside the cell before the glass closes up again seamlessly. The aliens leave without a word.

Trip leans Malcolm against the wall, he doesn’t stir as Trip does a mental inventory of his friend’s condition. The sight of scars on either side of Malcolm’s temples gives the Trip pause. Gently, he brushes his fingertips across them; he recognises the pattern, and he feels abruptly sick. Memories slam into him. Anger wells up, too, and he homes in on that, because he needs something to keep him going and it certainly isn’t going to be the fear or despair he keeps buried.

The shiny new splint on Malcolm’s leg comes as a shock. It’s the bare basics of treatment, but the aliens’ sheer disregard for their wellbeing in the past makes this act of apparent care stand out. No, not care, Trip thinks. They just don’t want to kill us too soon.

There are spots of dried blood around the scars on Malcolm’s temples, on his neck and hands, and Trip wrings the washcloth out and wipes the stains as carefully as he can. The lieutenant stirs beneath the touch, groaning, then finally opening slightly glazed grey eyes. He blinks a few times but doesn’t appear to really be seeing anything.

“Malcolm?” Trip says tentatively.

Another blink. Malcolm shifts, hisses through clenched teeth when the movement jostles something. Then, in a voice so soft he almost misses it, “Trip?”

A wide smile tugs at Trip’s lips. “Yeah,” he answers, resting his hand on Malcolm’s shoulder just because he finally can. “How do you feel? It’s been a while, huh?”

“I feel like bloody shit,” Malcolm blurts. It takes a few seconds for him to come back to himself and remember who he is, where he is, and then the blush creeps across his face. “I mean, I’ve been better.”

Trip laughs. “Hey, don’t filter yerself. It’s only me here.”

“Indeed,” Malcolm says, hushed, his eyes fluttering shut. Trip drops the cloth back in the bucket, droplets of water hitting his skin. It’s been too long since his last shower. When Trip turns back, Malcolm’s eyes are open again, eyebrows slightly furrowed. He’s frowning. “…A while?”

“Hm?”

Grey eyes land on him. “You said ‘a while’,” Malcolm repeats. “Been a while. What did you mean? How long was it…?”

Ah. “I… don’t know,” Trip says slowly. “Not like I can tell time in here. I was so scared, Malcolm, I got no shame in admittin’ that. You were gone so long, I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. What I was supposed to think. What-?” Trip shuts his mouth. What happened to you, that’s what he was about to ask, but then his eyes landed on Malcolm’s scars. The sight mocks him. Ghosts of a past thought long gone come back to haunt the both of them.

Malcolm continues to stare at him expectantly. A beat too late he finally catches on, and he casts his eyes down. “I don’t know,” he whispers. Fiddles with his hands. “I don’t know. I was- It’s all just bits and pieces, I think they did something to my memory. I can’t remember much of it, and the stuff I do is either nonsensical or… unpleasant.” He looks up. Trip notices with relief that he’s beginning to look a little more like himself. “What about you?”

“What about me? I’m fine.” Trip shrugs. “A bit lonely, but that’s hardly worth mentionin’.”

This just seems to confuse Malcolm. “That can’t be right.”

“What?”

“You were gone.” Malcolm shakes his head. “That is one of the clearest things I remember. We were in here, and then you were gone. I thought they’d…”

Trip holds his breath a second, then lets it out slowly. The silence that surrounds them is thick. “I’ve been here the whole time. It was you who they dragged off however many days ago. You don’t remember?”

“I just bloody told you, I-” Malcolm cuts himself off with a heavy and exasperated sigh. “Sorry, Trip. I’m sure you can imagine I’m not… feeling very much like myself at the moment. Damn.” He hunches inwards slightly, one hand coming up to fist into his dark hair. Banged up and trembling, the lieutenant’s persona of “uptight, repressed tactical officer” falls away into something more vulnerable.

“Hey,” Trip says gently, doing his best to keep his tone reassuring as opposed to patronising. “Yer allowed to let off a little steam, fuck knows I’ve already beaten up that wall a few times. Yer only audience is me.”

“Exactly. It’s not proper to ‘let off steam’ in front of a superior officer.” Malcolm’s half-joking. Trip lets out a little laugh, the forcefulness behind it obvious to even his own ears.

“I won’t tell anyone,” he promises, genuinely.

Malcolm’s eyelids are beginning to droop, he’s sagging against the wall. With a smile small playing on his lips, the lieutenant nods. “Deal.”

He’s on Enterprise. But he’s not. It’s not right. The world is askew, off – alarm bells ring loudly in his head and he clutches his hands to his ears just to try and shut out the noise to no avail. They just ring louder, louder, louder –

Until he realises that it’s not an alarm he’s hearing – it’s screaming. His eyes fly open to a world stained red with blood. His hands are dripping with it; he’s painted it himself. He stares down at them in shock until he begins to shake, and then a loud, ear-piercing scream jerks him from his thoughts. He wants to run but he can’t. His feet are glued to the ground. Thud, thud, his heart hammering against his chest, as he stands there and all he can do is listen and feel their lives all fade away.

When he has a voice he screams their names, but no one is around to listen. Archer, Travis, Hoshi, T’Pol, Phlox, dead, they’re all dead, he couldn’t get to them in time, his fault – and Trip –

Trip.

The world screeches to a halt. There is no screaming anymore, no sound save for his own heartbeat. He reaches out with hands that are no longer bloodstained, not really sure what he’s reaching for exactly, but as he does so the world ripples around him before falling away like water washing paint from a canvas, and he’s left in a white void. A sense of comfort, a familiar presence nearby, and he latches onto it, does his best to calm his racing heart –

“Malcolm!”

- jerks awake, arms up ready to defend himself, and Trip is there in front of him. Trip, who is very much alive, just like the rest of them are.

But do you really know that?

Panic flares up again. He flies upright into a sitting position, too fast, the world blurring around him and at the first sign of movement he lashes out on instinct.

“Hey, hey!” The commander expertly dodges flying limbs and even manages to catch one. Malcolm struggles against it but Trip’s hold is deceptively strong, and Malcolm is at the disadvantage of having just been asleep. “Malcolm, it’s me! Calm down. Calm down.”

Easier said than done, but somehow they manage.

“Jesus.” Trip rakes a hand through his hair. “That must’ve been some nightmare.”

“It felt so real…” The words tumble out of his mouth. He ducks his head to avoid the look of concern Trip shoots him. In hindsight, the nightmare is an absurd mess of imagery and jumbled sounds – but that’s just dreams in general, isn’t it? “I should still be able to tell,” he mutters to himself.

“What?” Trip asks.

“Nothing.” Malcolm shakes his head. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”

Trip’s shrug is answer enough. Malcolm leans back against the wall, shuffles to get comfortable.

"You okay?" the Commander asks after a moment. "Need some water? Food? I know you ate a little earlier, but you should be trying to keep up your strength."

Malcolm shakes his head and offers a muttered, "not hungry", plunging the cell into silence once more. His heart is still racing. His mind runs at warp seven; no amount of effort can keep his thoughts from returning to the ship he calls home tinted in red, nothing can stop the screams from echoing in his ears. He winces, and this action is noticed by Trip who huffs in annoyance.

"Alright, start talkin'. I'm not lettin' you brood in silence."

"I'm not brooding."

"Just..." Trip throws up his hands. "Talk to me. Please, Malcolm. Something's clearly bothering you." Aside from the obvious, they both think.

The engineer is nothing if not stubborn. Malcolm tilts his head up to look at the ceiling, but there are pipes there and he has to look away before he ends up spiralling. “…Do you think Enterprise will find us?” he hears himself ask.

“Absolutely.” Trip’s answer is predictably instantaneous. “Wherever we are, they’re hot on our trail. I know it.”

His expression practically dares Malcolm to argue. “Hm,” is all the lieutenant says in response, his attention on the thin red cuts on his hands. Nail marks. He must have scratched himself, then, but he doesn’t remember doing so.

“You were dreamin’ about Enterprise?”

Malcolm’s head shoots up. “How did you know?”

Offering a small smile, Trip sits back on his heels. “Inferred. Nightmare, then you immediately ask about the ship. It’s okay,” he adds, softening. “I get ‘em too. Sometimes I think I’m back on board and then something happens, some… twist, and it all just goes sideways.”

“It’s not like that,” Malcolm says quietly. He doesn’t meet Trip’s eyes, doesn’t want to. “In my dream, I’m terrified. I’m always terrified. Something has gone wrong but I don’t know what, only that I should have been able to stop it but I didn’t. Everyone’s dead, and their blood is on my hands.” He’s shaking again, uncontrollably. He clenches his teeth together and leans forward to bury his face in his hands. “Damn it. Damn it.”

“Malcolm-”

“It always feels real,” he continues in a hitching voice. “But when I wake up it only continues. It’s been getting worse and worse, and there are times when I can barely- I can barely convince myself that it’s not real. I feel like I'm losing it. I worry eventually I won’t be able to tell anymore.” To his horror he can feel himself unravel, seams carefully constructed over the years coming apart bit by bit. Tears well up in his eyes. Violent tremors wrack his body, he can’t pinpoint when exactly that started.

He startles when a hand falls against his shoulder but quickly – pathetically – leans into it, recognising the touch but still unable to look up at his friend’s face. "I'm sorry," he rasps. "Damn it. I-I should have more control over myself than this."

"It's okay."

He can feel Trip shuffle closer, and he can't decide whether to lean away or not. In the end, he stays where he is. He's hanging by a thread here, unable to get a fucking grip on himself - but with his friend so close it almost feels like he has a fighting chance.

“Trip,” he whispers, and his voice shakes badly, it doesn’t sound like his own. “What are they doing to me?”

Trip crawls forward and gathers up the unresisting tactical officer in his arms. “I don’t know,” he whispers into soft dark hair, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry, Malcolm. I don’t know.”

Chapter Text

They stay together for an indeterminable amount of time before Malcolm starts to move to untangle himself, and Trip, though reluctant, obliges. It’s awkward at first. Malcolm keeps his gaze ducked, his cheeks tinged a pinkish hue. Trip couldn’t care less – hell, in his opinion, Malcolm deserves to let go of himself for a little while. But he knows the Lieutenant prides himself on his self-control and dignity, so he does the best thing he can think of given the circumstances. He ignores it completely.

“Wanna eat anything?” He holds out a bowl of… actually he’s not sure what it is. They dropped it in while Malcolm was asleep. “I dunno when the last time you ate was.”

Malcolm eyes it, then looks back up at Trip. “Is it safe?”

“Okay, yeah, it looks slightly radioactive, but I doubt they’d give us poison this far in.” Far into what, Trip doesn’t clarify.

Malcolm takes the bowl, in the absence of any basic cutlery using his fingers. His eyebrows knit together. “I can’t tell if this is actually good or if I’ve just been starved.”

“I dunno about you, but I can’t wait to get back to the ship and have some real food. Spaghetti, steak, meatloaf, pecan pie.”

“Meatloaf?” Malcolm looks up, incredulous. “I’d rather eat this mush for the rest of my life than suffer through one bite of that.”

Trip laughs. It sounds vaguely forced. However long Malcolm was gone for, and it sounds like he was tied up a majority of the time, out of his own head, unaware of his surroundings. For what? Some sick experiments? Trip has long since given up trying to figure out the goal of this faction. There are two things that matter now: Malcolm, and getting back to Enterprise. Anything else can be sorted out later.

He ignores the pesky little voice that tells him if he doesn’t figure out how to get out of here soon, there may not be a later. Where is it he’s going to go anyway? He doesn’t know where he is – a ship, presumably, he swore at first he was able to hear the familiar hum of an engine but its gone now. Station, he thinks, and cold prickles across his skin. Nope, not that. Don’t think about that.

He wants to hold Malcolm. Be near him, at least, and the urge confuses him. Almost like how he felt when Malcolm was trailing him as a ghost-not-ghost, something he only noticed when its absence became clear.

Once Malcolm has wolfed down is bowl of whatever-the-hell and Trip has nibbled on a granola bar, lost in thought, they opt to sit against the wall side by side in comfortable silence, their shoulders just barely touching, and that is enough to ease the urge in Trip’s brain. Malcolm dozes, blinks himself awake before succumbing once again. Trip tells him to sleep and promises to keep watch. Secretly he’s worried, because Malcolm isn’t usually this lethargic. He was wide awake while he was kept as a hostage on Terra Nova; pumped with painkiller but still alert enough to defuse that bomb in the second year of their mission.

This is not the Lieutenant Reed he knows. And it has to do with the aliens’ experiments.

“What are they doing to me?”

Trip wishes he had the answer.

He sighs and shifts, and his movement causes Malcolm to fall against him, muttering something indistinct. His sleep is not light either, and nor is it easy, both things Trip is unaccustomed to of the Lieutenant. He wonders if Malcolm’s noticed any change in him – if there is any at all. Malcolm’s the one always being hauled back and forth and dumped back in the cell in worse and worse conditions. And Trip knows why. He’s their original. Their precious lab rat. Trip’s presence here was not planned, yet apparently it’s yielded results even these people didn’t anticipate. He can’t help but wonder what kind.

Damn morbid curiosity.

Malcolm drifts in and out of consciousness the entire time they spend together. The only time he snaps fully awake is when the aliens’ return is signified by the creaking door and the footsteps. Trip stands, forming a barrier between them and the Lieutenant.

It’s the smirking woman, for the first time in however long. Trip thinks she looks slightly more haggard. “We’ve had our fun with him,” she says, gesturing to the drowsy man on the floor behind him. “I think it’s time you had your turn now.”

“Like hell.” Trip folds his arms. “Maybe I’d consider it if you’d tell me what all this stuff is actually for. This back-and-forth, mind-numbing little experiments you do. What’s yer end goal?”

“Why would we tell you that? If you don’t come on your own volition, I’ll just stun you and drag you away. I’m sure you don’t want to do that.”

“Not really,” Trip admits. “But you might have to.”

Malcolm’s fully awake now, staggering unsteadily to his feet. “Trip? Trust me, it’s not worth it-”

“I’ve had enough of their games, Malcolm. I’m not some sheep to be led to slaughter.” It comes out harsher than he intends, and he has to backpedal seeing the flinch on his friend’s face. “If they want to just shoot me, fine. But at least I’ll feel like I had some sort of choice in the matter.”

Except he doesn’t. And that’s what scares him – that neither of them have a choice in whatever sick, twisted fate this is. A never-ending nightmare of past events revisited and days flying by without him, inexplicable dreams and emotions that feel significant but are too jumbled and nonsensical to be. Without really noticing he’s doing so, Trip reaches behind and grabs Malcolm’s hand, and is surprised when the Lieutenant squeezes back.

The woman looks at their conjoined hands, an eyebrow raised. “How interesting. It appears your heightened emotional connection has allowed you to bond more closely in ways beyond previously thought.”

“What?”

“It makes no difference to me.” Her signature smirk is back. “Shoot them both. I don’t think he has the strength to follow us, but I don’t want to risk it.”

Trip’s outraged cry and lunge forward is cut short by the high-pitched whine of a phaser beam, his body goes cold, and he sinks into blackness.

There are voices, whispering. If he strains his ears he can almost make out what they’re saying. To do so takes too much effort, though, so he doesn’t.

He’s floating. He can’t feel his body. He’s not sure he even has one. It’s peaceful among this nothingness. Here, there is nothing to worry about. He’s content to just let himself float, drift away…

But the voices are getting louder. More insistent, and now he can’t help but pick up what they’re saying. Jumbles of syllables to his foggy, confused brain, yet familiar syllables, and one of them stands out most of all. It’s his name.

“Trip… damn it! Someone help me get these off of him.”

In one forceful movement he is tugged from the darkness and back to the waking world, a soft gasp escaping his lips that turns into a cough. Someone lays their hand on his shoulder. “Take a deep breath, Trip. That’s it. We’ve got you now. It’s okay.”

With no words coming to him, Trip cracks open his eyes and a few blinks later the blurry shape above him morphs into the form of one concerned-looking Captain Archer.

“Thank god,” the captain breathes. “Whatever they gave you… Trip, are you even able to understand me now?”

Trip manages to nod once. He barely has any control over his own body.

“Right.” Archer purses his lips and says something over his shoulder that Trip doesn’t quite catch, before turning back to the engineer. The bonds around his ankles and wrists are now free. Archer helps him into a sitting position, grabbing him when he sags limply to the side. “Can you stand?”

Trip shrugs.

Archer looks him over once, then slings one of Trip’s arms across his shoulders and clamps his hand at the engineer’s waist, hauling him upright. Faint nausea wells up. Trip fights it down. The urgency in Captain Archer’s eyes – he need not say anything for Trip to know the time constraint they’re on. Hell, Trip was once in the man’s position himself.

His legs don’t respond well to his commands. They stagger through the hallways, T’Pol just next to him and Crewman Bocharov up front with her rifle poised to fire. Trip barely clings to consciousness the whole way, it feels like everything’s just a beat ahead of him. The fog is lifting from his head but his vision still won’t clear all the way no matter how many times he blinks.

“Just hang on,” Archer says, and Trip realises belatedly that his eyes have begun to slide shut. “I don’t know what they gave you, we’ll need Phlox to look you over. We’re almost there.”

Trip nods, leaning into Archer. Thank god. It’s almost over. And Malcolm and I… His eyes fly open and he struggles weakly against the captain’s hold.

“Trip, what…?”

“Malcolm,” Trip rasps. He glances between T’Pol, Archer, and Bocharov, barely registering the discomfort on their faces. “Have you got someone else goin’ after him? Where is he? I need to… I need to see him…”

“Trip, Trip.” Firm hands grasp his upper arms. “Trip, listen to me.”

But Trip doesn’t need to listen. One look into the tears dancing in that green gaze tells him everything he needs to know.

His heart drops. “No…”

“Whatever they did to Malcolm…” The captain draws in a deep breath. “There was no time to save him, Trip.”

“No.” Trip shoves Archer back, stumbles in the sudden absence of a crutch and uses the wall to steady himself. He brings a hand to his mouth. “No, that’s not… He was fine. He was… We were…”

“Trip, I’m sorry, we don’t have time for this.”

“No!” Trip exclaims again. His head is spinning. He can’t believe this.

Movement catches his peripheral vision. Just in time, he lunges out of the way and manages to avoid Archer’s grasp. He can’t dodge T’Pol, though, and he struggles against the Vulcan strength that suddenly pins his arms by his sides, holding him captive. Bocharov shouts something indistinct and the captain swears.

Trip lifts his head and tries to make out Archer’s expression but it’s like he’s seeing everything through fogged glass. Or underwater. Tears, maybe; he thinks he might be crying. The salty droplets trail down his cheeks and land at his feet.

“We can’t… need to get him to Phlox,” Archer is saying.

“No.” Trip’s protest comes out as a barely audible wheeze this time. T’Pol’s grip is iron. He can feel himself beginning to get weaker, his head pounding. “Malcolm.” He hangs his head.

There’s water on the floor.

The sight sparks a memory he can’t quite reach. Trip snaps his gaze back up but no one else seems to be paying attention to the water that is steadily getting higher. He tries to stop crying to no avail. Some of his strength regained, he writhes once more, his efforts fruitless and T’Pol begins to bodily drag him down the hallway with Archer by her side. “It’s okay,” the captain says. “It’s okay, Trip. We’ll be out of here soon. Stop struggling, it’s alright.”

Trip blinks; for a moment there, that voice did not belong to the man he’s known for so many years.

But that doesn’t matter now. What matters is they’re taking him away from here, and as much as he longs to leave, he can’t without Malcolm. The water has risen to his knees by now, yet no one else has realised it yet. Malcolm’s terrified of drowning. He doesn’t know where the thought comes from, but it’s all he needs to spur him into action.

He twists, jerks his arm and is rewarded when T’Pol releases her hold. Archer yells out and reaches for him. He pivots on his heel and draws his fist back, before slamming it into the captain’s nose, and a part of him aches when it realises he’s just injured his friend. He pushes it down. No time for that now.

He runs. They call after him but for whatever reason they don’t pursue. Distant gunfire; Trip runs until he cannot hear it anymore, or their voices anymore, until the only sound is his own breathing. He slows and takes a rest to try to get the throbbing in his head and his spinning vision under control. Once it’s manageable, he straightens.

The hallway plunges into darkness with every flicker of light. He isn’t exactly sure where he is, sure if he keeps walking he’ll find something familiar, something that’ll lead him to his friend, and then finally, finally, they can leave this hell together.

He yells his name, tentatively at first, “Malcolm,” and when no aliens come barging around the corner he continues calling even as his voice grows hoarse and every sound tears at his throat. He wades through water that tugs on his clothes, slowing him down, – “Malcolm!” – because despite what Archer said, Malcolm is alive, and Trip–

Trip stops.

Malcolm is alive.

And he knows this. Has known it all along.

He draws in a breath, the air tastes stale but he feels rejuvenated after, as if he hasn’t properly breathed in days.

And not really sure what he’s doing or fully understanding his own actions, he turns and slams his fist into the wall.

Trip comes to in a flash of white with a gasp. His first instinct is to lurch upright but finds restraints around his wrists and ankles make that impossible. They’re made of tough fabric, keeping him locked in.

The next thing he’s aware of his voices. Muttering, whispering, they don’t exactly sound happy. He’s too out of it to be sure if the voices are speaking English or not, or even if there’s a translator in use. Someone flashes a light in his face and he groans and flinches away from it. The next voice that speaks answers his previous unspoken question.

“He shouldn’t have been able to do that.”

“We should have gone for something simpler first. I told you, now we’ll have to wait much longer to try again, and this didn’t give us anything anyway.”

“How did he even pull himself out of that? The drugs were…”

“It must be the connection he has to the other subject.”

Trip’s eyes flutter, not quite shut but not quite open. The words make sense to him – individually, that is. Strung together he can’t make heads nor tails of them. They’re talking about him, so he thinks. He can’t place their tone. Are they annoyed? Impressed? Why does that even matter? he wonders. The headache is returning and he finally lets his eyes slide shut.

“Do you think we should bring the other one in?”

“It’s worth a try. The results could be interesting.”

Time skips. He’s next awoken by the sound of a door and a hoarse murmur of his name coming from a voice he’s heard before. With great effort, he opens his eyes.

Malcolm is standing there. Haggard, dark smudges beneath his pale, frightened eyes. He’s held between two Tilonians who tighten their grip when the Lieutenant pulls against them. “Trip,” he says again, “what did they do to you? What are they…?”

“Put him there.”

With that command, Malcolm is hauled out of Trip’s field of view. Trip tries to track him with his eyes, failing miserably, and the last thing he’s aware of is Malcolm’s protests and the sting of something at his neck before the world fades away.

Chapter Text

The first time is painful. It feels like there’s something drilling into his skull, setting it on fire, and electrocuting his brain all at once. He’s sure he’s screaming. And absently, he wonders if this is how Malcolm felt.

They return him to the cell weak and delirious, barely able to hold himself up. He collapses then and there on the floor and dreams of nothing.

Malcolm doesn’t come with him.

They don’t let him recover. He moans helplessly as they lift him up by his arms some hours later and drag him bodily down the hall, and he tries not to let his feet drag but he just feels so exhausted. So sick of this already.

He’d rather they kill him, honestly.

He immediately chastises himself for thinking of such things. He promised Malcolm he’ll get them out and he intends to stick to that promise. And when he looks over at Malcolm across the table, and those grey, terrified eyes meet his, there’s suddenly no other option.

He has to get him out.

It can’t end like this.

That’s his last thought before they inject him with something and suddenly everything spins into blackness.

The ship rocks again and he’s sent flying, crashing into a bulkhead. Pain shoots up his left shoulder. Metal groans with strain all around him. Common sense, or perhaps it is cowardice, tells him he should get out of there before the wall blows, but he cannot abandon search now.

He can save him. He needs to save him.

(Who?)

He wipes the dust and sweat from his eyes and his hand comes away red. A sharp sting above his eyebrow. He didn’t even notice he was injured, but there’s no time to think about that now.

He finds him on the lower levels. With the flickering lights, he can’t see exactly who it is at first that’s trapped between that door and a bulkhead. He steps forward and squints against the darkness.

And almost keels over from shock.

The messy blond hair, the pain-filled blue eyes that meet his identical ones –

Trip is looking at himself.

Other-Trip smiles at him toothily and Trip backs away, confused, ends up running right into someone. He turns around and Malcolm is standing there. Trip looks up and gasps, for Malcolm’s eyes have been gouged out, and there’s blood caked on his fingers like he did it to himself, but the worst part is his chest which is caved in and the gaping hole where his heart should be.

Suddenly the floor beneath him has vanished and he’s falling, falling, through a vast expanse of white, his own scream the only echoing sound.

He steps through a set of automatic glass doors into yet another identical hallway, phase pistols at the ready, scanners in hand. There’s a flashlight in his bag and for a moment he debates using it, then decides against it. A conspicuous beam of light is the last thing they need.

“This way,” says his companion, glancing up from his scanner and gesturing down a corridor to the left.

There’s a familiar feeling creeping up on him as they wind their way through the dark hallways. He passes by a small circular window that peers out into space, out onto the small rogue planet that Enterprise is hiding behind, and a sudden urge to escape, escape now floods his mind. His companion physically pushes him along. They’re on a time constraint, after all.

(Why?)

By the time they reach their destination he fears his heart may just jump out of his chest with how fast it’s beating. “In here,” his companion motions.

They have to down two aliens to get in. He misses the first time, hits the second, and then they’re rushing to the side of some metal slab of a table, and the figure laying on top of it.

He physically reels back.

The thin face is even thinner, cheekbones more prominent. He’s hooked up to all sorts of wires and his shirt is gone.

Malcolm is looking at himself.

“Sir?” A tight grip on his arm and he looks up to find Travis staring at him in concern. “Are you alright?”

Malcolm opens his mouth to answer but no sound comes out. He flicks his gaze back and forth between the man restrained on the table – himself – and his companion, until his vision starts to blur and grey out. A sharp pain stabs him in the chest and he keels over, screams, but he’s choking on his own blood and no one is around to hear him.

He’s falling.

He’s falling.

He can hear someone calling.

He reaches out.

They open their eyes.

He hears voices first. Unfamiliar voices.

“I can’t believe it,” one says, tone tinged with awe.

“I knew it!” cheers another.

“These findings will surely…”

“…the council will…”

“…when we present what we have discovered…”

The voices begin to overlap each other, echoing strangely in his ears, fading like he’s slowly sinking under water. He reaches up and tries to break the surface, but finds it’s too far away.

He’s drowning.

Panic floods through him, but he doesn’t know why. He’s never been afraid of the water.

Right?

Why is he so unsure about that?

The voices continue around him, chattering too fast for him to make out. He feels himself slowly begin to sink beneath the waves, unable to fight any longer, no energy left in him. He feels completely drained… and strangely invaded.

Just before he falls, he feels a comforting presence somewhere untouchable, and he reaches out for it. The presence grows.

It reminds him of something… someone…

And suddenly Trip is filled with motivation, his energy restored.

I’m getting you out, Malcolm, he promises in his mind. One way or another.

And somehow, he swears he can almost hear a response.

Chapter Text

The ship rocks.

It takes a moment for Trip to realise it’s real. More than a moment, actually, his brain completely scrambled and his memories still in disarray. By the time he’s caught up with the world, the Tilonians are already scrambling to figure out what’s going on. One of them is untying him from the table and out of the corner of his eye Trip sees another doing the same to an unconscious Malcolm.

“Pull them out of it!”

“I can’t,” says one of the Tilonians. “I don’t know… He’s still…”

“Then get them out of here!” barks the Tilonian Trip guesses is in charge. “The other subject as well. And send security details to all available…”

The world fades out.

When it fades back in, Trip finds himself being carried over someone’s shoulder, their collarbone jutting painfully into his stomach. He wriggles, and the person holds on tighter.

Before long, Trip recognises the long hallway that leads to the cell, and he’s dumped unceremoniously inside. His mind still foggy and his limbs not responding to any commands he gives them, Trip can only lie there and watch as they throw Malcolm in as well before the door slams shut.

The Tilonians lose their balance briefly as the ship rocks again, before running back down the hall out of sight.

Malcolm isn’t moving. From this distance, Trip can’t even tell if he’s breathing—but surely the Tilonians wouldn’t have killed him, right?

Painstakingly, Trip forces his aching limbs into action. He pushes himself first onto his hands and knees, swaying a bit as another jolt is sent throughout the ship again. It feels almost like weapons fire, but that isn’t at the forefront of Trip’s mind right now. Malcolm is.

His head still feels like it’s on fire. He groans and screws his eyes shut for a brief moment, then forces himself forward, inch by painful inch, until he’s at Malcolm’s side. He reaches out to touch his shoulder.

Steady if shallow breaths greet him.

“Thank god,” Trip breathes.

Then the collapses at Malcolm’s side, his eyes sliding shut.

Strange voices reach his ears. In the darkness, Trip stirs, disturbed and curious by the familiarity of the voices. His neck aches, but he lifts it anyway, blinking open heavy eyelids.

“Trip…”

He glances around, struggling to home in on where the voice is coming from. His mind won’t cooperate. He almost gives up, falls back into unconsciousness, but the voice becomes more insistent.

“Trip!”

His head jerks in the direction of the cell door. There, stands Captain Archer, T’Pol, and a security crewman.

A sense of déjà vu washes over Trip. Not again, he thinks. Without really comprehending what he’s doing, he scoops Malcolm up in his arms and begins to shuffle backwards, away from the door. His mind suddenly feels hyper-focussed on one thing: he’s not letting the bastards trick him again.

Archer frowns. “Break the lock,” he instructs the crewman, who nods and steps forward and hefts the phase pistol.

“No!” Trip barks, and all heads turn towards him in surprise. He narrows his eyes. “Yer not foolin’ me. Not again.”

“Trip, it’s us,” Archer pleads. “It’s Jon, and T’Pol, and that’s-”

“No!” Trip shouts again. He holds Malcolm closer—he’s startlingly light in his arms, and cold. “I don’t know what yer game is, but he ain’t dead!”

Archer blinks. “I never said he was,” he says calmly, a touch of worry behind his tone. “Trip, we’re going to break the lock and get you out of here. We don’t have much time.”

Trip wraps his arms tighter around Malcolm. He doesn’t say anything.

The crewman breaks the lock, and the group hesitates before stepping inside, Archer first, then T’Pol. Trip spies a phase pistol on her hip, but the captain is unarmed.

“We’ve come to take you home,” Archer says. His eyes fall to Malcolm, then back up at Trip, and there’s an anxious, urgent expression on his face now. “Trip, can you stand?”

Trip isn’t sure he can, actually. And he doesn’t want to. He shrinks back further, remembering the last time this happened, and glares daggers at Archer.

“Trip,” the captain says, sounding exasperated now, “we don’t have time. Whatever’s going on, whatever happened… you need to come with us.”

Trip considers him with narrowed eyes. This certainly feels real. But it can’t be. It’s just another trick.

What if it’s not? whispers a voice in his head, and he glances down at Malcolm. What if it’s not a trick, and they can save him. You can feel it—Malcolm’s not going to last much longer.

Neither are you.

He looks up at Archer. “Can you help him?” he asks softly.

Archer takes a moment to realise what Trip is saying, but when comprehension dawns, he nods. “Of course we can, Trip,” he says gently.

Another rock through the ship. Suddenly the security crewman yells out, “They’re coming, sir!”

“It’s now or never,” Archer tells Trip, holding out his hand.

Trip regards it for a moment. Then he collects Malcolm in his arms and stands up, rather unsteadily, but managing to stay upright even despite his weakened mental state. He catches movement out of the corner of his eye and flinches back, but it’s only T’Pol.

“Commander,” she says smoothly, “allow me to carry the Lieutenant.”

“No.” Trip shakes his head, and the resulting motion sends the world spinning. He stumbles, and his only stopped by Archer’s hand on his shoulders. “I have to…”

T’Pol eyes him, seems about to disagree, but relents.

With Archer’s steadying hand on his back guiding him, and Malcolm’s weight in his arms, Trip follows T’Pol and the security crewmen down the hallways and towards the docked shuttlepod. A part of him is still screaming that it’s all a trap, that any minute water is going to come flooding in, or Malcolm’s going to disappear, or Archer’s going to turn on him.

But nothing happens.

They make it to the shuttlepod in one piece. Trip sets Malcolm down on the bench and remains by his side, smoothing back the smaller man’s hair, as everyone else prepares to disengage. He barely registers Ensign Hamaya on the opposite bench, being tended to by a medic. He listens but doesn’t really hear what anyone is saying.

“It’s okay, Malcolm,” Trip tells the unconscious man. “Nothing’s gonna happen to you, not if I can help it.”

And he swears he feels a piece of him that doesn’t really feel like him relax.

Chapter Text

Sickbay is silent. Even Phlox’s creatures hardly rustle in their cages, and a sense of grimness hangs heavy in the air. Around three bio-beds, curtains are pulled up, blocking Archer’s view of the patients who currently occupy them.

They’re all unconscious by now. Hamaya had been long passed out, but Phlox administered a hypospray to Trip not long after they docked, when the man refused treatment. Malcolm hasn’t so much as twitched. Watching the medics place him on a gurney and carry him away—it had been a solemn affair, like they were carting away a corpse. It certainly looked that way. Malcolm was pale. Thin. His clothes torn and bloodied. He had scars on his temples.

Archer shudders at the memory.

Trip hadn’t been faring much better, but at least he’d been conscious, if not quite aware. He’d babbled something about not being tricked “again”. Whatever the Tilonians had done to him hadn’t been good.

Understatement of the year, Archer thinks.

Hamaya was the better out of the three of them. According to Phlox, they didn’t really do much to him, aside from some sort of surgery Phlox wouldn’t give him details of. The doctor estimates no more than a week before the Ensign can be back on duty.

But as for Trip and Malcolm…

Archer regrets not opening fire on the station. As much as his hands twitched to do so, instead he’d ordered for them to warp away as fast as possible.

But this time, they wouldn’t be so naïve as to believe everything was alright.

Phlox has already examined Malcolm and determined the device on his heart—the tracker, as it so happened—was gone. It had been cut out some indeterminable time ago. Archer felt sick when Phlox had told him this, and Phlox himself looked equally as unwell, but had soldiered on to explain that they couldn’t touch the armoury officer anymore. As far as he could tell, anyway.

This didn’t fill Archer with much confidence, but it was all they had for reassurance. And blowing the station out of the sky and killing multiple aliens—as much as many of the crew wouldn’t be sorry to see them go—wasn’t the Starfleet way.  

Archer sighs and runs his hand through his hair. He came here for a reason: Phlox told him Trip was awake. But somehow, his courage to pull back that curtain has vanished. He knows he needs to talk to Trip, get the full story from him to give to Starfleet, but it feels too soon.

He’ll approach this as a friend, he decides.

With a shaking hand, he reaches out for the curtain.

Trip is sitting up on the bio-bed, hands folded in his lap, mindful of the IV line. He looks… well, he looks a little better, but not much. The blood on his face and hands is gone, but he’s terribly skinny still. His eyes flick to Archer immediately, and there’s a wariness in them.

“Hey,” Archer greets lamely.

Trip cocks his head, and it reminds Archer much of Porthos. “Cap’n.”

“You feeling better?”

“A bit,” Trip says softly.

Archer nods.

Trip suddenly looks down at his hands, picks at the blanket draped over his knees. “I’m… sorry,” he whispers.

“For what?” Archer asks.

“Not trustin’ you.” Trip shrugs. “Those Tilonians… they made me believe…” He trails off, sucks in a breath, then shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Trip.” Archer approaches carefully, and his heart lurches when Trip barely restrains a flinch. “What happened?”

Trip meets his eyes. “Lots of shit happened,” he says plainly. “I’m still not convinced this is all real, y’know.”

“I understand. I mean,” Archer corrects when he sees Trip’s incredulous look, “I don’t exactly, but… I sympathise.” It sounds pathetic even to his own ears. “You went through hell.”

“Don’t forget Malcolm,” Trip says flatly. “They cut his chest open to get at that stupid thing on his heart.”

“I heard,” Archer whispers.

Trip purses his lips and, to Archer’s horror, tears start to crowd in the engineer’s eyes. “What was even the point of all this?” he asks brokenly. “It was just- just torture. Plain an’ simple. They tortured us, Cap’n.”

“I know, Trip,” Archer says gently, wrapping an arm around his friend. “I know.”

When Trip is all out of tears, Archer continues to hold him, rubbing his back in soothing motions. Once Trip has composed himself, the engineer pulls back and draws in a deep breath. “I want to see him,” he says.

“See Malcolm?” Archer asks.

Trip nods.

Archer hesitates. He isn’t sure if this is a good idea, but Trip is looking at him pleadingly, and he can’t say no to his friend. So he nods, and helps Trip off the bio-bed, and opens the curtain to the left.

Trip sucks in a breath when he sees Malcolm. It’s nothing Archer hasn’t seen before, but to Trip, this is new. Malcolm is, like Trip, cleaner, the blood gone, but still clearly injured. Lying on the bio-bed, he looks almost frail. Like a baby bird without its mother.

Trip approaches carefully, on shaking legs, and leans heavily against Malcolm’s bio-bed. “Oh, Mal,” he whispers, and reaches out to ghost his fingertips across the scars on Malcolm’s temple. Then, suddenly, the engineer relaxes and turns to Archer. “He’s alright,” he says.

Archer nods. “Yes, Phlox said-”

“No,” Trip cuts him off. “I mean… okay, this sounds stupid, but… he told me.”

Archer frowns. “He told you?”

Trip nods, then taps his finger to his temple and smiles weakly. “Up here.”

“Let’s get you back to bed, Trip.”

Trip’s smile drops. “You don’t believe me.”

“Trip-”

“I swear, I can feel it, Cap’n.” Trip lurches towards him and grips his forearms for steadiness. “I can feel him. In my head. He’s in my head, Cap’n, and I’m in his. We’re connected.”

Archer takes Trip’s shoulders. “I believe you,” he says calmly. “But I still think you need to get back to bed.”

Trip closes his eyes and exhales slowly. “A’ight.”

Archer assists Trip in getting back into his bio-bed, then leaves the small cordoned off area. And he comes face to face with Phlox.

“Doctor,” Archer greets in surprise.

Phlox bows his head. “Captain.”

“I’m sorry,” Archer blurts. “He wanted to see Malcolm. I thought, maybe if he saw he was okay, he’d calm down.”

“Not to worry, captain. It’s alright.” Phlox offers a smile.

Archer nods slowly.

“Was he lucid to you?” the doctor asks next.

“Lucid enough,” Archer answers, then hesitates. “Um… although, he said something. About… feeling Malcolm. Something about being connected.  Do you have any idea what he’s on about?”

Phlox sighs. “As a matter of fact, I might.”