tli
in
entficathon
"Miracle Cure" by Sita Z (1/3)
Title: Miracle Cure
Author: Sita Z
Pairing: Tucker/Reed
Rating: NC 17
Written for: qzee (Her request: Trip, Mal go camping or get stranded together for awhile and it leads to a deeper friendship or slash.)
Archive: Yes to Warp 5 Complex, everybody else please ask.
Word Count: 19178
Summary: Trip and Malcolm, a planet, a project and a river in Egypt.
Betas: I had three betas this time: Gabi, Romanse and The Libran Iniquity (who made sure Malcolm actually sounds British!). Thank you! All remaining mistakes belong to me.
AN: Set in mid Season 1, shortly before 1.12 “Silent Enemy”. I’m messing around a little with the canon of that episode (just pretend Trip got his “Dear John” letter a few weeks earlier).
Thanks for the assignment, qzee! I had fun writing it, so much so that I started out planning to write about 6000 words and ended up with 19000. Oh well :). Hope you like it!
Part I
Trip Tucker was singing. Out of consideration for his co-workers, he didn’t usually exercise his vocal talents outside the shower, but today had been a good day. They’d overhauled and reinstalled the plasma injectors, and everything was running as smooth as butter. With the engine back to top efficiency, the long series of hiccups and malfunctions had finally come to an end.... or so he hoped.
Shutting down his work terminal, Trip launched into song again, louder than before. He was feeling musical today. Maybe he should dig out a few of his old collections back in his quarters, stuff he could sing along with. He was in that kind of mood.
“Trip?”
He turned around. Jon was leaning in the door to his office, looking... well, he couldn’t quite put a finger on the expression on Jon’s face.
“Hey Cap’n. Never heard you coming.”
“I noticed.” Jon was still eyeing him in that strange way, and Trip was fairly sure he was suppressing an emerging grin.
“Come on, it wasn’t that bad.” Okay, so he didn’t have the best voice, but he could carry a tune most of the time. A skill which Jon, for all his many talents, couldn’t claim.
Jon rubbed a hand over his chin, a sure-fire sign that he was struggling to keep a grin out of sight. “Do you know what you were singing, Trip?”
“Yeah,” Trip shrugged. “Some oldie. It’s called “You Sexy Thing”. My dad used to listen to it.”
“I know the song. Do you know what you were singing?”
“Jon, what-“
“I believe in Malcolm,” Jon said. “You were singing I believe in Malcolm.”
Trip paused. He hadn’t been, had he? He’d never really thought about the words before, had never consciously listened to them. But he had warbled them loud enough.
“That’s the lyrics.” For some inexplicable reason, he was blushing. Quickly, he turned around and pretended to leaf through some padds, though not quickly enough to miss Jon’s grin. “They don’t make any sense, but-“
“That’s not the lyrics, Trip. It’s I believe in miracles.”
“No way,” Trip said, realizing with growing horror that Jon was very likely right. “That’s not how they sang it in the version my dad had,” he added defensively.
“They sang I believe in Malcolm?” Jon’s voice trembled slightly.
“Yeah! Hell, I never thought about it! Maybe it’s some sorta, I don’t know, historical reference...”
“Historical reference?”
“Or maybe I misheard the lyrics,” Trip said, glaring at the Captain over his shoulder. Damn the man, anyway.
Jon nodded, still looking like the cat that had swallowed the canary. “Well, it seems you’re all done here,” he said.
Trip nodded, glad that the subject of misheard lyrics and Malcolm was closed. “Yeah, I’ll just need to run one more hardware check.”
“I’ll see you at dinner then.” Jon left, and Trip could hear him humming “You Sexy Thing” under his breath. Bastard.
He sighed, shaking his head at himself. I believe in Malcolm, since you came along, you sexy thing.
And to think he’d been singing it that way all his life.
###
“This is it.”
Trip stared at the thing Malcolm Reed had just dropped onto the conference table. It looked like a cross between a small coffin and a treasure chest, the kind they always had in pirate movies. It certainly was heavy, if Malcolm’s reddened face was anything to go by. He must have carried the thing here all the way from the Armory.
Trip glanced at Jon, and found that the Captain was eyeing the coffin/treasure chest with a slightly worried expression.
“This is part of your new security protocol?”
Malcolm nodded proudly. “Yes sir. My team and I spent the last few weeks developing it.”
“Did it die?” Trip asked, and immediately found himself the focus of a narrow-eyed stare.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Commander.”
“I just thought, since you put it in a coffin...”
“Very funny, Mr. Tucker.” Mistah Tuckah. He was doing it again. Trip caught Jon’s small frown and quickly wiped the grin off his face.
“This,” Malcolm continued, deliberately ignoring Trip now, “is an improved version of the standard survival kit. We’ve reviewed old after-action reports and updated the equipment according to the conditions we’ve encountered on previous missions.”
It’s certainly handy and easy to carry in your pocket, Trip thought, but didn’t say. As much as he enjoyed being a smart ass and getting a lot of Mistah Tuckah’s thrown at him, he could see that Malcolm had spent a lot of time and effort on this.
Jon nodded thoughtfully, and Trip wondered if he was thinking along the same lines, trying to come up with a diplomatic way of pointing it out to Malcolm.
“It seems rather unwieldy for a survival kit,” T’Pol observed, saving Jon the trouble.
Malcolm looked at her, then down at his box, then glanced briefly at the ceiling. “Actually, this is not the survival kit,” he said, in his patience-stretched-to-the-limits voice. It was a voice Trip had come to know quite well. “It’s only a transportation container.”
He undid the clasps of the coffin/treasure chest, and opened the lid.
“This is a utility vest.” He held up a bulky garment, of a strange, mottled green and featuring more pockets than Trip had ever seen on one piece of clothing, Starfleet uniforms included. “It has a built-in recovery harness, flotation collar, and a composite body armor, with extra protection for chemical warfare. It’s also thermo-insulated, and designed to withstand temperatures ranging from -60 to +200 degrees Celsius.”
He gave the vest to Hoshi, who was sitting next to him, and began handing out the contents of his container.
“We made six prototypes. If they prove sufficient, we’re planning on equipping both shuttles with twelve standard kits. With your permission, Captain,” he added quickly.
Jon turned his vest from side to side. “Impressive,” he said. “Is that a chain saw?”
He held up a small black pouch he had taken out of one of the pockets.
Malcolm nodded. “With bi-directional teeth. It also works under water.”
Trip wondered if they had tested it, and if so, where. He didn’t ask, though. Malcolm seemed to be almost bursting with pride, and even Trip had to admit that the vest was quite something.
“What’s that?” he asked. It looked like a hypospanner, with a lid that could be opened like the cap of a pen.
“It’s basically a match,” Malcolm said. “We considered designing a tool that worked like a phaser set to stun, but there’s the problem of recharging it, of course.”
He continued explaining the various tools hidden away in the vest’s many pockets, taking them out and demonstrating their use. A wayward strand of his usually immaculate hair had fallen into his forehead, brushing against the pale skin. Trip watched it bounce ever so slightly when Malcolm turned his head. Malcolm didn’t have black hair, he decided. It sometimes looked that way, depending on the incidence of light, but it was actually brown; a dark, rich, chocolatey brown. Not many guys had hair like that... silky, was probably the word he was looking for. If Malcolm ever decided to leave Starfleet, he could do shampoo commercials. They’d be falling over their own feet to engage him, what with his hair and the accent. “That drop-dead sexy English guy,” Lizzie had called him in her last letter, and she only had the news images and a few pictures Trip had sent. He wondered how Malcolm would react if he knew. Probably blush right to the roots of his chocolate-brown hair and then say something self-deprecating. This was Malcolm Reed, after all.
“...the match can also be adjusted to work in a wet environment, and-“
Malcolm suddenly broke off, and Trip realized that he’d been staring at the man with a zoned-out expression on his face. Quickly, he straightened in his chair and began to examine the vest he had been given, as if he had never seen anything more fascinating. He could feel Malcolm’s eyes lingering on him, probably expecting another joke or smart-ass comment. After a short pause, he continued with his explanations, and Trip breathed a silent sigh of relief. If the Armory Officer ever found out Trip had imagined him extolling the attributes of a hair shampoo... well, Jon would always wonder why his Chief Engineer had mysteriously disappeared.
Trip inwardly shook his head at his latest burst of randomness. Shampoo commercial... I mean, please.
He listened attentively after that, watching as Malcolm demonstrated how to wear the vest, asking questions about one piece of equipment or another. Malcolm acted pleasantly enough towards him, and had apparently forgotten about Trip’s moment of... disorientation. Except that he hadn’t, of course. Malcolm didn’t forget about things, ever. He saved information in that neat and orderly file system in his head, all ready to be taken out and used when the time was right. And not only work-related stuff, either. Trip had once mentioned in passing that he couldn’t wait to see the new Sondra Marshall film, the latest debut of his favorite director. At the time, Malcolm had given no indication that he was listening, let alone paying any attention. But for Trip’s birthday five weeks later, Malcolm gave him a copy of the film, the director’s cut no less. Trip wasn’t overly surprised at the bottle of Kentucky Bourbon from Jon, the hug from Hoshi and the clap on the shoulder from Travis, nor the ad for wrinkle cream Lizzie sent him as a card. He had never expected Malcolm to acknowledge such mundane things as birthdays, though. His surprise must have shown, for Malcolm had looked instantly embarrassed, and had retreated behind a self-conscious smirk when Trip tried to thank him. Later, Trip realized that he should probably have invited Malcolm over to watch the film together, but he simply hadn’t thought of it at the time. Which was too bad, really; watching a movie with Malcolm was fun, and his sarcastic comments had Trip rolling on the floor more often than not. The guy could be funny as hell, if he wanted to.
“... substituted the old tent with a triple-insulating polymer,” Malcolm was saying, giving Trip a genuinely puzzled look. And Trip realized that he had zoned out again.
To his great relief, Jon chose that moment to interrupt Malcolm’s lecture. “You mentioned a testing phase...”
“Yes sir,” Malcolm nodded enthusiastically, and, thank God, no longer paid Trip any attention. “I’d like to conduct a planetside simulation scenario. According to my scans, there are at least two suitable M-class planets in the system we’re heading for.”
“What exactly would this planetside simulation involve?” From Jon’s cautious tone, it seemed that the idea of Malcolm playacting as Hostile Alien Forces chasing a number of vest-clad crewmen across some alien terrain had crossed his mind, as well.
“Well, with your permission, Captain, I’d like to find a suitable environment and simulate survival situations to test the efficiency of the new equipment.”
“Meaning, you wanna go camping,” Trip drawled without thinking. Seeing the look on Malcolm’s face, he instantly regretted it. The Armory Officer was quite obviously not amused.
“Hardly, Commander. It is standard procedure to submit new survival equipment to a series of tests, including an outdoor trial phase.”
Trip opened his mouth, about to tell Malcolm to keep his shirt on, and closed it again. Why did he have to mouth off to the Lieutenant all the time? He wasn’t deliberately trying to annoy him - okay, not this time - and he never meant to slight Malcolm’s projects or suggestions. Besides, Jon was giving him the evil eye again.
He was relieved when T’Pol chose that moment to speak up. “I have assigned a team of exobiologists to examine the second planet’s flora and fauna. If Mr. Reed finds the environment suitable for his testing, it could be conducted at the same time.”
Malcolm gave her a grateful look. “The second planet would be fine, Subcommander.”
Jon nodded. “Alright then. We’ll get both shuttlepods ready. Commander Tucker will assist you with the preparations, Malcolm.”
Trip blinked. Jon only called him “Commander Tucker” when he was about two hairs away from landing himself in big trouble. But assigning him to tag along on Malcolm’s boy scout outing? Not that he would mind getting some fresh air, but still...
“Actually, sir, I was planning to take Ensign Müller along.” Malcolm didn’t sound too happy about the Captain’s decision either. For some reason, Trip’s mood slid down another notch. At least he would be better company than Müller, Malcolm’s second-in-command. All those two would talk about were weapons this, Armory that, or maybe discuss German and British military history. Okay, Malcolm probably liked military history, oddball that he was, but-
“I think it would be a good idea if Commander Tucker accompanied you,” Jon said, a strange undertone in his voice. “If some of the tools need modifying, I believe Trip could work real miracles.”
That got him surprised looks from all around the table, except from Trip, who was trying his damndest not to blush. If Malcolm ever found out about the song he had so fatally misunderstood... no. The idea was too awful to bear contemplation.
“Yes sir,” Malcolm replied stiffly. Trip wondered if Jon had just spoiled the man’s excitement about his mission... and was surprised how little he liked the idea. He wasn’t that horrible to have around, was he?
“If there’s nothing else,” Jon got up from his chair, “I suggest we all get to work. Good job on the new equipment, Lieutenant.”
Getting up as well, Trip began to gather up the vests and helped Malcolm stack them in the transportation container. The Armory Officer shot him a suspicious look from the corners of his eyes, but Trip pretended not to notice. He would show Malcolm that he wasn’t only a pain in the ass... and then, when he was back on the ship, he would kill Jon.
Yes, that sounded like a plan.
--------------------- **** ------------------------
------------------------ **** ---------------------------
When the shuttle’s nose broke though the last layer of clouds, Trip’s first thought was that “suitable environment” did not quite describe the planet below them. It was, in short, an understatement: Down there was a world that would have appeared in any travel guide as “a tropical paradise with sunny skies, pristine beaches and emerald coasts”. In fact, Trip had never seen a planet, not even Risa, that looked so much as if it had been designed for human holidaymakers. Its colors reminded him of Earth, only they were a touch brighter, as if someone with a giant brush had decided the dull blue oceans needed a touch of azure, and the green continents would benefit from a neon hue. “Continent” was a relative term with this world: There wasn’t one large mass of land anywhere on the planet’s sparkling surface, but rather thousands of small islands scattered all over the ocean, looking like leftover crumbs on an oversized cake plate.
Trip was about to share the idea when he thought better of it. Malcolm was sitting stiff-backed in the pilot chair, operating the helm with curt, precise movements and staring straight ahead as if he were expecting a squadron of alien ships to appear any minute. Maybe he did; the look on his face reminded Trip of a soldier going into battle, rather than someone who had just laid eyes on one of the most beautiful worlds they had ever encountered.
Trip sighed inwardly. He wanted Malcolm to have a good time, to relax, but it was obvious that “relax” and “duty” were mutually exclusive in Malcolm’s book. Or maybe it was his presence that made the man even more uptight than usual... whatever it was that he had done this time.
“ETA two minutes,” Malcolm announced. Trip looked out the front window and saw that they were rapidly approaching one of the larger landmasses, an almost perfect oval shape of gold and green surrounded by a white-crested sea. How could Malcolm not look forward to this?
“T’Pol said the temperature’s a steady 80 to 95 degrees almost anywhere on the planet,” he ventured. “Nice, huh?”
“If one cares for the tropics, I suppose it is,” Malcolm answered without turning around.
Trip blinked. “So ya don’t?”
This time, Malcolm did throw him a glance over his shoulder. “Care for the tropics? Not particularly, no.”
Then why the hell did you insist on coming down here? Trip bit his lower lip. He didn’t want to muddy the conversational waters before they had even reached solid ground.
Malcolm didn’t seem inclined to make small talk, either. He took the shuttle into a shallow descent, flying along the coast of the island. The scenery passing outside the window was paradise with a few extra attractions: Trip saw palm trees bowed down by large blue fruit, alien flowers of unlikely colors, and birds that looked like snakes more than anything else. According to T’Pol, there were no large predators, which was a relief; at least Malcolm wouldn’t constantly worry about the safety of the science team. Especially since the Armory Officer seemed determined to worry and fret about everything else.
Trip looked out the front window again, grinning when he saw miles and miles of deserted beach stretching before them. Even if Malcolm refused to have fun, it didn’t mean that he couldn’t enjoy himself.
###
Thirty minutes later, Trip admitted to himself that his assessment might have been premature. Sweat was running down his neck in thick rivulets, itching on his back and soaking the collar of his uniform. His feet were beginning to feel as if they had been embedded into steaming hot concrete. Whoever invented these boots, anyway? They were fine for a starship with a constant room temperature of 70 degrees, but out here, they clung to his feet like two heavy rocks. His uniform was killing him, too, absorbing the heat as if it consisted of a dozen layers rather than three. If only he could take off the damn...
“Malcolm... please?”
“I said no, Commander.” Malcolm didn’t even turn around, continuing his march down the beach. “The vests stay on. That’s what they were designed for, after all.”
“For giving the person wearing them heatstroke?” Trip asked peevishly, rubbing a hand over his sweat-drenched hair. T’Pol must have been wrong about the temperature; to him, it felt more like 105 degrees - in the shade.
“For being transported without having to carry them,” Malcolm replied, his tone becoming more clipped with every word. Trip noticed that the fine, dark hair on the nape of his neck was damp as well, and realized that Malcolm felt no less hot and uncomfortable than he did. He hadn’t uttered a word of complaint, though.
“Well, you’re the boss,” he said, trying for a conciliatory tone. It was true; Malcolm as the survival expert had full authority over the mission, which meant that for the time being, Trip was subject to his orders. It also meant that he had to keep on the vest and trudge after Malcolm along this damn beach until the Lieutenant finally decided their reconnaissance of the environment was complete.
Malcolm stopped so suddenly in his tracks that Trip almost bumped into him.
“Wha-“
“We’re being followed,” Malcolm said. Before Trip had time to comprehend the words, he found himself shoved down in the sand behind a large boulder, a phase pistol pushed into his hand.
“Give me covering fire,” Malcolm ordered quietly, peering over the boulder’s edge at something in the nearby forest. “I’ll make a sally and try to get them out in the open.”
“You’ll make a what? Malcolm-“
But he had no time to ask Malcolm what exactly he was planning to do, and if it was possible that the heat had gotten to him more than was healthy. The Armory Officer leaped catlike over the boulder and performed a perfect drop and roll on the sand before he began to run towards the nearby trees, firing his phase pistol now and then. Had there been any enemies, he would have gotten them for sure, Trip thought, forgetting all about the covering fire he was supposed to give. Malcolm might be nuts, but he was still a sight to behold, moving with such uncanny speed and grace.
Shaking off the thought, Trip began to climb over the boulder. “Mal, what the hell’s goin’ on?”
“What are you doing?” Malcolm had stopped in his run and turned around, a frown descending on his face when he saw that Trip had left their hiding place. “I told you to give me covering fire.”
Trip shook his head. “There’s no one there!”
Malcolm stared at him, as if he were not quite able to believe his ears. “Well, of course there isn’t! That’s why they call it a simulation, don’t they?”
“A...” Trip broke off, feeling heat rise to his cheeks that had nothing to do with the sun. “Why the hell d’you need to simulate a gunfight when we’re here to try out these goddamn vests?”
Malcolm narrowed his eyes at him. “Well, obviously a trial phase includes battle situations as well. There won’t always be time to slip out of the vests before engaging in combat, will there?”
It was perfectly logical, which made Trip even madder. “You coulda told me, instead of just bargin’ off like a-“ He bit down on the rest of the sentence.
Malcolm stared at him, and Trip expected another venomous remark, or maybe a salve of stinging sarcasm. He had certainly given the man enough ammunition to use against him. Malcolm said nothing, though. For a second, a strange expression crossed his face, and was gone again so quickly that Trip wasn’t even sure it had been there at all. When he did speak, he said something quite unexpected.
“Maybe we should take a break.” Malcolm wiped a hand over his forehead, sighing as he did so. It was a weary, almost sad gesture, and Trip suddenly found himself overwhelmed by the urge to take his words back. He needn’t have flown off the handle like that... but what else was new? Where Malcolm was concerned, he seemed to have contracted a terminal case of foot-in-mouth disease. No wonder the Lieutenant didn’t like having him around.
“Yeah,” he agreed, not trusting himself to say anything else. He’d been incredibly slow on the uptake, had ruined Malcolm’s combat simulation and snapped at his Acting Commanding Officer. Might be a good idea to keep that big yap of his shut for a while.
Malcolm would no doubt appreciate it.
###
Malcolm’s simulation scenario would make a great adventure film, Trip thought, walking at a brisk pace in order to keep up with the Armory Officer. According to the script, they’d been fired at by a hostile ship and had crashed the shuttlepod close to the coast, avoiding a thruster explosion by the skin of their teeth. Swimming back and forth between the coast and the sinking shuttle, they’d been able to salvage a tent, two sleeping bags, rations and, of course, the vests. Trip’s suggestion that he had heroically risked his life to save a specially packed bag of marshmallows hadn’t gone down particularly well, and so the marshmallows stayed in the shuttle, together with Trip’s air mattress and the bottle of Kentucky bourbon. “How about a table and a few chairs while you’re at it,” Malcolm had snarked. Luckily, he hadn’t seen Trip hide a pack of hotdogs in his backpack. Marshmallows he could do without, but camping wasn’t camping without cooking hotdogs over the fire. Maybe they could pretend he had hunted down a few alien rodents. Trip shuddered. Or maybe not. It wouldn’t kill Malcolm if they had a few hotdogs on sticks, and besides, he could just imagine what the Lieutenant would have to say about the rodents.
Noticing that he had fallen behind, Trip picked up his pace. Malcolm had insisted that they go further inland, searching a supply of fresh water. The gunfight incident still in mind, Trip had not pointed out that he was carrying two liters of fresh water in his backpack, as was Malcolm himself. Apparently, it was all part of the simulation.
Eyeing the Lieutenant’s vest-clad back, he wondered, not for the first time, if Malcolm was secretly enjoying himself. He didn’t seem to be, but then, Malcolm was a master of deception. And he was undeniably in his element, planning survival strategies and simulating tactical situations, exploring unknown and potentially hostile terrain. Trip was willing to bet that Malcolm had been a big fan of “cops and robbers” as a kid (and he’d doubtlessly been one of the cops). It would be tempting to ask him about it; in fact, it would be tempting to ask him a lot of things, if Trip wasn’t so sure that he’d get cool stares and monosyllabic answers in reply.
He caught up with Malcolm again, falling into pace with the other man. At least marching was easier, now that they had left the scorching heat of the beach behind. The alien palm trees provided enough shade to keep the ground relatively cool. Huge, mangrove-like plants added an extra layer of protection, spreading their branches like sunshades. From time to time, Trip glimpsed something furry between the leaves, or a flutter of bright feathers when a bird fled from the invaders in its territory.
“This doesn’t look too bad,” Malcolm said finally, coming to a halt. Trip looked around. As a potential campsite, the place did look quite promising. Surrounded by palm trees, the clearing was wide enough to set up a tent and build a fireplace, and still have room to move around. Half of it was shaded by one of the mangrove trees, and most importantly, there was the supply of freshwater Malcolm had insisted on: a small, overgrown pond nestled against the mossy roots of the mangrove. As Trip watched, a tiny red snake disappeared into the water, leaving a trail of faint bubbles behind. He made a mental note to scan the water later.
“Home sweet home.” Shrugging off his backpack, he let himself plop into the sand, watching Malcolm who was methodically lining up his equipment on the ground. The Lieutenant raised his head, a slight smile touching his lips.
“You can take off the vest now, sir,” he said. “Before you do suffer a heatstroke.”
Trip didn’t need a second invitation. He slipped out of the heavy garment and placed it carefully on the ground, then pulled down the zipper of his uniform.
“Y’know,” he said, shrugging down the top half of his jumpsuit, “technically, you don’t hafta call me “sir”. You outrank me on this mission, remember?”
As he pulled off the sweatsoaked undershirt and tossed it aside, he noticed a strange expression on Malcolm’s face. Maybe the Lieutenant didn’t approve of Trip’s less-than-standard state of undress, but it was too damned hot to be wearing a black, long-sleeved shirt. He didn’t know how Malcolm could stand it.
“Then technically, it would be protocol for you to call me “sir”,” Malcolm said calmly, intent on his equipment again.
Trip blinked. “Well, yeah, but-“
Malcolm glanced up again, and Trip noticed the playful gleam in his eyes. He began to grin, relieved that it had been a joke and delighted that Malcolm was actually teasing him. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad.
“You had me goin’ there for a minute.”
Malcolm smiled, apparently satisfied.
“Y’know,” Trip continued, reaching for the bag that contained their tent, “maybe we should just drop ranks and all that, while we’re here. Might be easier.”
Might help you unwind a little, he added in thought. Maybe Malcolm guessed what he was thinking, for his smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. The look on his face was wary, almost suspicious.
“If you say so.”
It wasn’t exactly the enthusiastic response Trip had hoped for, but he let it slide. At least Malcolm hadn’t straight-up refused him.
They didn’t talk much while pitching the tent; or rather, while they watched it pitch itself. Malcolm and his team had perfected the mechanism; the tent opened and unfolded by itself, and all that was left to do was stick six pegs into the ground. Trip wondered if Malcolm had ever considered asking him for help with the design; he was, after all, an engineer. It was unlikely, though. Ninety-five percent of the time, Malcolm only called him to ask oh-so-politely for more weapons power, and the other five percent he complained not quite so politely about the power Trip had not given him. Malcolm would never dream of involving him in any of his pet projects.
Once the tent was standing, Trip crawled inside to have a look around. The old tent had been something of a tight squeeze, but the improved version offered more than enough room for two people and their gear. Also new were the pockets on either side of the inner tent; to store more equipment, Trip assumed. Malcolm and his team had really pulled out the stops.
He poked his head out the tent flap. “Looks great.”
“Thank you,” Malcolm replied without looking up from what he was doing. Trip wondered if there had been a trace of sarcasm in the Lieutenant’s voice. No, he decided. It was probably just Malcolm’s unapproachable attitude starting to get to him.
He grabbed their backpacks and sleeping bags. “You want the left or the right side?”
At that, Malcolm glanced up. “Whichever you prefer will be fine.” A sudden, furious blush spread on his face, and he hastened to add, “I mean, I’ll take the other side.”
“Sure.” Crawling back into the tent, Trip wondered what that had been all about. He’d caught Malcolm’s meaning the first time, and it wasn’t like the aloof Englishman to blush over a simple slip of the tongue. Maybe Malcolm just found the idea of physical proximity to a senior officer embarrassing. After all, he was really uptight about fraternization and all that. An unbidden image popped up in Trip’s mind, from some dusty corner of his subconscious he had all but forgotten about: Him and Natalie in a sleeping bag, fighting over the only pillow... she on top of him, giggling, her silky hair tickling his face. Only Natalie’s hair was curly and wiry, and as far as he remembered, not smooth to the touch at all. Not that he was ever going to refresh his memory, mind you. Long-distance relationships never work, and this is about as long-distance as you can get, he had told Jon. Maybe the Captain hadn’t realized it at the time, but he hadn’t only been referring to the geographical distance.
Frowning, he shook his head, pushing the memory away as he began to unroll the sleeping bags. Malcolm needn’t worry about getting too close to him; there was almost a meter of groundsheet between them. About as long-distance as you can get, Trip thought, a grin tugging at his mouth.
It was strange, though. Natalie’s hair wasn’t silky at all.
###
“This is nice,” Trip said, leaning back and staring into the crackling flames of the campfire. Malcolm’s fire-making tools had worked as perfectly as you please, lighting the brittle driftwood like tinder. Malcolm hadn’t simply thrown a pile of wood on the ground and set fire to it; he had laid out a neat circle of stones around a shallow dent in the sand, using a handful of dry palm fronds as kindling. He had even remembered to put a flat stone in the middle to balance a pot or pan on.
Malcolm threw him a brief look and poked at the fire with a stick, causing a cloud of sparks to fly up. The fire cast a soft glow over his features, making him look startlingly young. Trip realized that he had never thought about Malcolm’s age before. The question was out before he had time to think.
“How old are you, Malcolm?”
The look he got in return wasn’t entirely unfriendly. “I’m turning thirty in September. Why?”
Trip shrugged. “Just asking.”
Twenty-nine. He’d have guessed more like thirty-something. Not based on looks, but because Malcolm didn’t come across like someone who hadn’t yet left his twenties behind. Travis and Hoshi, yes, but not calm, quietly confident Lieutenant Reed.
“Thirty, huh?” Trip grinned, and aimed a poke at the fire himself. “We should have a party.”
Malcolm looked at him askance. “A party?” He said the word as if Trip had suggested they have an orgy on the bridge.
“Yeah, why not?” Trip asked, a bit defensively. “Might be fun.”
“I don’t think so.” Malcolm seemed to consider the subject closed. Reaching behind the log he was sitting on, he grabbed his backpack and took out several nutrition bars.
“We should try to gather some provisions in the morning,” he said, handing two of the bars to Trip. “These won’t last long.”
Having internalized the rules of Malcolm’s simulation by now, Trip didn’t mention the ration packs back in the shuttle. He got up from his log.
“Be right back.”
If Malcolm wanted to gather “provisions”, they could do that - tomorrow. Tonight, Trip had other plans. When he returned to the campfire five minutes later, he was carrying two thin sticks about the length of his arm.
“What are those for?” Malcolm frowned. “If you’re planning to make spears, you’ll need thicker sticks.”
Trip sat back down on his log. “I don’t need them for spears,” he replied, hooking one foot in the shoulder strap of his backpack and pulling it closer.
“Then why-“ Malcolm broke off when he saw what Trip was producing from his backpack.
“Hotdogs on sticks.” Trip turned his most winning smile on the Lieutenant. “Want some?”
Malcolm narrowed his eyes at him. “I remember telling you to leave those in the shuttle.”
“C’mon, Malcolm. Those bars taste worse than cardboard. ‘sides, we can try out those utility knives of yours to sharpen the sticks.”
“They weren’t designed for preparing a barbecue,” Malcolm grumbled, but Trip noticed that he had laid his half-eaten nutrition bar aside. Grinning, he handed Malcolm one of the sticks.
“Well, I’m sure they’ll do just fine.”
The knives did prove more than adequate to the job, and by the time they skewered a hotdog each, Malcolm’s mood had lightened considerably.
“Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea,” he admitted, watching as fat dripped down from his hotdog, sizzling in the flames.
Trip smiled. “I used to do this when I went camping with my buddies. Didn’t you?”
Malcolm’s eyes returned to the fire. “I don’t think I ever went camping the way you did,” he said finally. “I did go on several field trips with the Eagle Scouts. I’m not sure we ever had hotdogs on sticks, though.” He smiled as he said it, and while it was not a sad expression, something about it touched Trip. He only nodded in reply, wondering not for the first time if Malcolm’s childhood had been very different from his own. He had a feeling that it had been, but could think of no way to ask the man about it. Maybe that was just as well; some subjects were better left alone, especially given his tendency to put his foot in it.
They sat in silence for a while, and Trip wondered idly if he should have a look at Malcolm’s file to find out the exact date of his birthday. As Malcolm’s superior, he had unlimited access to the man’s confidential file. Trip didn’t go through anyone’s personal information as a habit, only when it was necessary, but he might make an exception in Malcolm’s case. The idea of throwing him a surprise party was too tempting to be dismissed out of hand. He knew Travis and Hoshi would be all for it. The only thing that put a damper on his excitement was that Malcolm hadn’t seemed to like the idea of celebrating at all. Not to mention the fact that luring him into a dark room and springing a surprise on him might not be a wise thing to do. The guy was, after all, the most dangerous man on the ship.
Pulling back his soot-blackened stick, Trip blew on the hotdog before taking a careful bite. He watched Malcolm retrieve his own hotdog, which he had been slowly turning over the fire for the last five minutes. Apparently, he handled cooking the way he did everything else; methodically and with little fuss, just a quiet guy going about his business. Trip just wished he wouldn’t be quite so quiet sometimes.
“Travis’ girlfriend wrote,” he said, opting for a safe topic (or gossip, as Hoshi wouldn’t have hesitated to point out). “She’s trying to get a transfer to Enterprise.”
“Oh?” Malcolm lifted his head.
“Yes, but it might take a while. She’s serving on the Susquehanna right now, but they might assign her to a new ship when she gets promoted.”
“I didn’t know Travis had a girlfriend,” Malcolm said.
Trip blinked. He’d always thought Travis and Malcolm were at least casual friends. “He only mentioned her once or twice,” he said, wishing he hadn’t brought up the subject at all. “I don’t think they’ve been together long.”
Malcolm didn’t seem too disturbed by the fact that Travis hadn’t told him. Maybe that’s what he’s used to, Trip thought. The idea made him sad.
He gave Malcolm a sideways glance and suddenly the question was out, before he had time to consider. “You got a girlfriend back home, Malcolm?”
Malcolm gave him a sharp look, eyes narrowing slightly. Trip was startled, if not entirely surprised, by the sudden anger in the man’s face.
“I don’t think that’s any of your business, Commander,” Malcolm said, emphasizing Trip’s rank. He hesitated for a moment before continuing, “I really don’t know why you’re asking me this.”
“Malcolm...”
Malcolm pushed his stick into the fire and got up. “I’ll see you in the morning, Commander. Good night.”
Trip watched him leave. It was amazing at times, the way his mouth got ahead of his brain and jabbered out the one thing that was bound to get him in trouble. Still, it wasn’t as if he had insulted the man, had he? What was so hard about “No, I’m between relationships right now” or “Yes, her name’s Alice and we’re planning to be married at the local church as soon as I’m back”? He would have told Malcolm about Natalie, if he’d asked. He’d have told him about the letter, and maybe even about his guilt-ridden relief that it had been her, not him, who had taken that inevitable final step. But that was the thing; Malcolm hadn’t asked, and by letting his mouth run away with him, Trip had just managed to ensure that it was going to be a very long three days. He sighed, giving the left-over hotdogs a morose look. He wasn’t really hungry anymore, either.
###
Later, Trip lay in his sleeping bag, listening to the sounds of the nightly forest, strange cries echoed by faint responses further away. He had stayed at the fire long enough so that Malcolm could safely pretend to be asleep when he turned in. Sure enough, he found the Lieutenant ensconced in his sleeping bag, his back turned to the world in general and Trip in particular. He hadn’t moved since Trip had come in, his quiet, even breathing hardly audible. Maybe he really was asleep. Or maybe not. It was so hard to tell anything for sure with him.
Sighing, Trip rolled over, facing the inside of the tent. He had gone over their conversation at least half a dozen times, but he couldn’t quite figure out what had gone so fundamentally wrong. Clearly, Malcolm had been angry, but was it only because Trip had asked him a personal question? Maybe something had happened that Malcolm would rather not talk about, and he had launched a pre-emptive strike so Trip wouldn’t press him for details?
I’d like to think you know me better than that, Trip thought, eyeing the silent back presented to him. I wouldn’t have pushed you. Or teased you.
But then, that was exactly what Malcolm would expect of him, wasn’t it? He was always pushing the man, teasing him, trying to get under his skin. The way Malcolm got under his.
Skin, Trip thought, barely aware that his mind was drifting off to sleep. Natalie had nice skin. Smooth, pale but of an elegant, marble quality. Skin he would like to touch. Skin he would like to uncover, remove the layers of fabric, and... blue fabric. Yes, blue fabric. He wanted to see what was beneath those layers, wanted to touch, kiss, caress. Feel that silky hair under his fingers, on his lips. That chocolate brown hair.
Wonder if it tastes sweet, he thought, and then he fell asleep, unaware that he was smiling, and unaware when, five minutes later, the man in the other sleeping bag slowly turned around, his eyes open and staring into the dark between them.
Onto Part II
Author: Sita Z
Pairing: Tucker/Reed
Rating: NC 17
Written for: qzee (Her request: Trip, Mal go camping or get stranded together for awhile and it leads to a deeper friendship or slash.)
Archive: Yes to Warp 5 Complex, everybody else please ask.
Word Count: 19178
Summary: Trip and Malcolm, a planet, a project and a river in Egypt.
Betas: I had three betas this time: Gabi, Romanse and The Libran Iniquity (who made sure Malcolm actually sounds British!). Thank you! All remaining mistakes belong to me.
AN: Set in mid Season 1, shortly before 1.12 “Silent Enemy”. I’m messing around a little with the canon of that episode (just pretend Trip got his “Dear John” letter a few weeks earlier).
Thanks for the assignment, qzee! I had fun writing it, so much so that I started out planning to write about 6000 words and ended up with 19000. Oh well :). Hope you like it!
Part I
Trip Tucker was singing. Out of consideration for his co-workers, he didn’t usually exercise his vocal talents outside the shower, but today had been a good day. They’d overhauled and reinstalled the plasma injectors, and everything was running as smooth as butter. With the engine back to top efficiency, the long series of hiccups and malfunctions had finally come to an end.... or so he hoped.
Shutting down his work terminal, Trip launched into song again, louder than before. He was feeling musical today. Maybe he should dig out a few of his old collections back in his quarters, stuff he could sing along with. He was in that kind of mood.
“Trip?”
He turned around. Jon was leaning in the door to his office, looking... well, he couldn’t quite put a finger on the expression on Jon’s face.
“Hey Cap’n. Never heard you coming.”
“I noticed.” Jon was still eyeing him in that strange way, and Trip was fairly sure he was suppressing an emerging grin.
“Come on, it wasn’t that bad.” Okay, so he didn’t have the best voice, but he could carry a tune most of the time. A skill which Jon, for all his many talents, couldn’t claim.
Jon rubbed a hand over his chin, a sure-fire sign that he was struggling to keep a grin out of sight. “Do you know what you were singing, Trip?”
“Yeah,” Trip shrugged. “Some oldie. It’s called “You Sexy Thing”. My dad used to listen to it.”
“I know the song. Do you know what you were singing?”
“Jon, what-“
“I believe in Malcolm,” Jon said. “You were singing I believe in Malcolm.”
Trip paused. He hadn’t been, had he? He’d never really thought about the words before, had never consciously listened to them. But he had warbled them loud enough.
“That’s the lyrics.” For some inexplicable reason, he was blushing. Quickly, he turned around and pretended to leaf through some padds, though not quickly enough to miss Jon’s grin. “They don’t make any sense, but-“
“That’s not the lyrics, Trip. It’s I believe in miracles.”
“No way,” Trip said, realizing with growing horror that Jon was very likely right. “That’s not how they sang it in the version my dad had,” he added defensively.
“They sang I believe in Malcolm?” Jon’s voice trembled slightly.
“Yeah! Hell, I never thought about it! Maybe it’s some sorta, I don’t know, historical reference...”
“Historical reference?”
“Or maybe I misheard the lyrics,” Trip said, glaring at the Captain over his shoulder. Damn the man, anyway.
Jon nodded, still looking like the cat that had swallowed the canary. “Well, it seems you’re all done here,” he said.
Trip nodded, glad that the subject of misheard lyrics and Malcolm was closed. “Yeah, I’ll just need to run one more hardware check.”
“I’ll see you at dinner then.” Jon left, and Trip could hear him humming “You Sexy Thing” under his breath. Bastard.
He sighed, shaking his head at himself. I believe in Malcolm, since you came along, you sexy thing.
And to think he’d been singing it that way all his life.
###
“This is it.”
Trip stared at the thing Malcolm Reed had just dropped onto the conference table. It looked like a cross between a small coffin and a treasure chest, the kind they always had in pirate movies. It certainly was heavy, if Malcolm’s reddened face was anything to go by. He must have carried the thing here all the way from the Armory.
Trip glanced at Jon, and found that the Captain was eyeing the coffin/treasure chest with a slightly worried expression.
“This is part of your new security protocol?”
Malcolm nodded proudly. “Yes sir. My team and I spent the last few weeks developing it.”
“Did it die?” Trip asked, and immediately found himself the focus of a narrow-eyed stare.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Commander.”
“I just thought, since you put it in a coffin...”
“Very funny, Mr. Tucker.” Mistah Tuckah. He was doing it again. Trip caught Jon’s small frown and quickly wiped the grin off his face.
“This,” Malcolm continued, deliberately ignoring Trip now, “is an improved version of the standard survival kit. We’ve reviewed old after-action reports and updated the equipment according to the conditions we’ve encountered on previous missions.”
It’s certainly handy and easy to carry in your pocket, Trip thought, but didn’t say. As much as he enjoyed being a smart ass and getting a lot of Mistah Tuckah’s thrown at him, he could see that Malcolm had spent a lot of time and effort on this.
Jon nodded thoughtfully, and Trip wondered if he was thinking along the same lines, trying to come up with a diplomatic way of pointing it out to Malcolm.
“It seems rather unwieldy for a survival kit,” T’Pol observed, saving Jon the trouble.
Malcolm looked at her, then down at his box, then glanced briefly at the ceiling. “Actually, this is not the survival kit,” he said, in his patience-stretched-to-the-limits voice. It was a voice Trip had come to know quite well. “It’s only a transportation container.”
He undid the clasps of the coffin/treasure chest, and opened the lid.
“This is a utility vest.” He held up a bulky garment, of a strange, mottled green and featuring more pockets than Trip had ever seen on one piece of clothing, Starfleet uniforms included. “It has a built-in recovery harness, flotation collar, and a composite body armor, with extra protection for chemical warfare. It’s also thermo-insulated, and designed to withstand temperatures ranging from -60 to +200 degrees Celsius.”
He gave the vest to Hoshi, who was sitting next to him, and began handing out the contents of his container.
“We made six prototypes. If they prove sufficient, we’re planning on equipping both shuttles with twelve standard kits. With your permission, Captain,” he added quickly.
Jon turned his vest from side to side. “Impressive,” he said. “Is that a chain saw?”
He held up a small black pouch he had taken out of one of the pockets.
Malcolm nodded. “With bi-directional teeth. It also works under water.”
Trip wondered if they had tested it, and if so, where. He didn’t ask, though. Malcolm seemed to be almost bursting with pride, and even Trip had to admit that the vest was quite something.
“What’s that?” he asked. It looked like a hypospanner, with a lid that could be opened like the cap of a pen.
“It’s basically a match,” Malcolm said. “We considered designing a tool that worked like a phaser set to stun, but there’s the problem of recharging it, of course.”
He continued explaining the various tools hidden away in the vest’s many pockets, taking them out and demonstrating their use. A wayward strand of his usually immaculate hair had fallen into his forehead, brushing against the pale skin. Trip watched it bounce ever so slightly when Malcolm turned his head. Malcolm didn’t have black hair, he decided. It sometimes looked that way, depending on the incidence of light, but it was actually brown; a dark, rich, chocolatey brown. Not many guys had hair like that... silky, was probably the word he was looking for. If Malcolm ever decided to leave Starfleet, he could do shampoo commercials. They’d be falling over their own feet to engage him, what with his hair and the accent. “That drop-dead sexy English guy,” Lizzie had called him in her last letter, and she only had the news images and a few pictures Trip had sent. He wondered how Malcolm would react if he knew. Probably blush right to the roots of his chocolate-brown hair and then say something self-deprecating. This was Malcolm Reed, after all.
“...the match can also be adjusted to work in a wet environment, and-“
Malcolm suddenly broke off, and Trip realized that he’d been staring at the man with a zoned-out expression on his face. Quickly, he straightened in his chair and began to examine the vest he had been given, as if he had never seen anything more fascinating. He could feel Malcolm’s eyes lingering on him, probably expecting another joke or smart-ass comment. After a short pause, he continued with his explanations, and Trip breathed a silent sigh of relief. If the Armory Officer ever found out Trip had imagined him extolling the attributes of a hair shampoo... well, Jon would always wonder why his Chief Engineer had mysteriously disappeared.
Trip inwardly shook his head at his latest burst of randomness. Shampoo commercial... I mean, please.
He listened attentively after that, watching as Malcolm demonstrated how to wear the vest, asking questions about one piece of equipment or another. Malcolm acted pleasantly enough towards him, and had apparently forgotten about Trip’s moment of... disorientation. Except that he hadn’t, of course. Malcolm didn’t forget about things, ever. He saved information in that neat and orderly file system in his head, all ready to be taken out and used when the time was right. And not only work-related stuff, either. Trip had once mentioned in passing that he couldn’t wait to see the new Sondra Marshall film, the latest debut of his favorite director. At the time, Malcolm had given no indication that he was listening, let alone paying any attention. But for Trip’s birthday five weeks later, Malcolm gave him a copy of the film, the director’s cut no less. Trip wasn’t overly surprised at the bottle of Kentucky Bourbon from Jon, the hug from Hoshi and the clap on the shoulder from Travis, nor the ad for wrinkle cream Lizzie sent him as a card. He had never expected Malcolm to acknowledge such mundane things as birthdays, though. His surprise must have shown, for Malcolm had looked instantly embarrassed, and had retreated behind a self-conscious smirk when Trip tried to thank him. Later, Trip realized that he should probably have invited Malcolm over to watch the film together, but he simply hadn’t thought of it at the time. Which was too bad, really; watching a movie with Malcolm was fun, and his sarcastic comments had Trip rolling on the floor more often than not. The guy could be funny as hell, if he wanted to.
“... substituted the old tent with a triple-insulating polymer,” Malcolm was saying, giving Trip a genuinely puzzled look. And Trip realized that he had zoned out again.
To his great relief, Jon chose that moment to interrupt Malcolm’s lecture. “You mentioned a testing phase...”
“Yes sir,” Malcolm nodded enthusiastically, and, thank God, no longer paid Trip any attention. “I’d like to conduct a planetside simulation scenario. According to my scans, there are at least two suitable M-class planets in the system we’re heading for.”
“What exactly would this planetside simulation involve?” From Jon’s cautious tone, it seemed that the idea of Malcolm playacting as Hostile Alien Forces chasing a number of vest-clad crewmen across some alien terrain had crossed his mind, as well.
“Well, with your permission, Captain, I’d like to find a suitable environment and simulate survival situations to test the efficiency of the new equipment.”
“Meaning, you wanna go camping,” Trip drawled without thinking. Seeing the look on Malcolm’s face, he instantly regretted it. The Armory Officer was quite obviously not amused.
“Hardly, Commander. It is standard procedure to submit new survival equipment to a series of tests, including an outdoor trial phase.”
Trip opened his mouth, about to tell Malcolm to keep his shirt on, and closed it again. Why did he have to mouth off to the Lieutenant all the time? He wasn’t deliberately trying to annoy him - okay, not this time - and he never meant to slight Malcolm’s projects or suggestions. Besides, Jon was giving him the evil eye again.
He was relieved when T’Pol chose that moment to speak up. “I have assigned a team of exobiologists to examine the second planet’s flora and fauna. If Mr. Reed finds the environment suitable for his testing, it could be conducted at the same time.”
Malcolm gave her a grateful look. “The second planet would be fine, Subcommander.”
Jon nodded. “Alright then. We’ll get both shuttlepods ready. Commander Tucker will assist you with the preparations, Malcolm.”
Trip blinked. Jon only called him “Commander Tucker” when he was about two hairs away from landing himself in big trouble. But assigning him to tag along on Malcolm’s boy scout outing? Not that he would mind getting some fresh air, but still...
“Actually, sir, I was planning to take Ensign Müller along.” Malcolm didn’t sound too happy about the Captain’s decision either. For some reason, Trip’s mood slid down another notch. At least he would be better company than Müller, Malcolm’s second-in-command. All those two would talk about were weapons this, Armory that, or maybe discuss German and British military history. Okay, Malcolm probably liked military history, oddball that he was, but-
“I think it would be a good idea if Commander Tucker accompanied you,” Jon said, a strange undertone in his voice. “If some of the tools need modifying, I believe Trip could work real miracles.”
That got him surprised looks from all around the table, except from Trip, who was trying his damndest not to blush. If Malcolm ever found out about the song he had so fatally misunderstood... no. The idea was too awful to bear contemplation.
“Yes sir,” Malcolm replied stiffly. Trip wondered if Jon had just spoiled the man’s excitement about his mission... and was surprised how little he liked the idea. He wasn’t that horrible to have around, was he?
“If there’s nothing else,” Jon got up from his chair, “I suggest we all get to work. Good job on the new equipment, Lieutenant.”
Getting up as well, Trip began to gather up the vests and helped Malcolm stack them in the transportation container. The Armory Officer shot him a suspicious look from the corners of his eyes, but Trip pretended not to notice. He would show Malcolm that he wasn’t only a pain in the ass... and then, when he was back on the ship, he would kill Jon.
Yes, that sounded like a plan.
--------------------- **** ------------------------
------------------------ **** ---------------------------
When the shuttle’s nose broke though the last layer of clouds, Trip’s first thought was that “suitable environment” did not quite describe the planet below them. It was, in short, an understatement: Down there was a world that would have appeared in any travel guide as “a tropical paradise with sunny skies, pristine beaches and emerald coasts”. In fact, Trip had never seen a planet, not even Risa, that looked so much as if it had been designed for human holidaymakers. Its colors reminded him of Earth, only they were a touch brighter, as if someone with a giant brush had decided the dull blue oceans needed a touch of azure, and the green continents would benefit from a neon hue. “Continent” was a relative term with this world: There wasn’t one large mass of land anywhere on the planet’s sparkling surface, but rather thousands of small islands scattered all over the ocean, looking like leftover crumbs on an oversized cake plate.
Trip was about to share the idea when he thought better of it. Malcolm was sitting stiff-backed in the pilot chair, operating the helm with curt, precise movements and staring straight ahead as if he were expecting a squadron of alien ships to appear any minute. Maybe he did; the look on his face reminded Trip of a soldier going into battle, rather than someone who had just laid eyes on one of the most beautiful worlds they had ever encountered.
Trip sighed inwardly. He wanted Malcolm to have a good time, to relax, but it was obvious that “relax” and “duty” were mutually exclusive in Malcolm’s book. Or maybe it was his presence that made the man even more uptight than usual... whatever it was that he had done this time.
“ETA two minutes,” Malcolm announced. Trip looked out the front window and saw that they were rapidly approaching one of the larger landmasses, an almost perfect oval shape of gold and green surrounded by a white-crested sea. How could Malcolm not look forward to this?
“T’Pol said the temperature’s a steady 80 to 95 degrees almost anywhere on the planet,” he ventured. “Nice, huh?”
“If one cares for the tropics, I suppose it is,” Malcolm answered without turning around.
Trip blinked. “So ya don’t?”
This time, Malcolm did throw him a glance over his shoulder. “Care for the tropics? Not particularly, no.”
Then why the hell did you insist on coming down here? Trip bit his lower lip. He didn’t want to muddy the conversational waters before they had even reached solid ground.
Malcolm didn’t seem inclined to make small talk, either. He took the shuttle into a shallow descent, flying along the coast of the island. The scenery passing outside the window was paradise with a few extra attractions: Trip saw palm trees bowed down by large blue fruit, alien flowers of unlikely colors, and birds that looked like snakes more than anything else. According to T’Pol, there were no large predators, which was a relief; at least Malcolm wouldn’t constantly worry about the safety of the science team. Especially since the Armory Officer seemed determined to worry and fret about everything else.
Trip looked out the front window again, grinning when he saw miles and miles of deserted beach stretching before them. Even if Malcolm refused to have fun, it didn’t mean that he couldn’t enjoy himself.
###
Thirty minutes later, Trip admitted to himself that his assessment might have been premature. Sweat was running down his neck in thick rivulets, itching on his back and soaking the collar of his uniform. His feet were beginning to feel as if they had been embedded into steaming hot concrete. Whoever invented these boots, anyway? They were fine for a starship with a constant room temperature of 70 degrees, but out here, they clung to his feet like two heavy rocks. His uniform was killing him, too, absorbing the heat as if it consisted of a dozen layers rather than three. If only he could take off the damn...
“Malcolm... please?”
“I said no, Commander.” Malcolm didn’t even turn around, continuing his march down the beach. “The vests stay on. That’s what they were designed for, after all.”
“For giving the person wearing them heatstroke?” Trip asked peevishly, rubbing a hand over his sweat-drenched hair. T’Pol must have been wrong about the temperature; to him, it felt more like 105 degrees - in the shade.
“For being transported without having to carry them,” Malcolm replied, his tone becoming more clipped with every word. Trip noticed that the fine, dark hair on the nape of his neck was damp as well, and realized that Malcolm felt no less hot and uncomfortable than he did. He hadn’t uttered a word of complaint, though.
“Well, you’re the boss,” he said, trying for a conciliatory tone. It was true; Malcolm as the survival expert had full authority over the mission, which meant that for the time being, Trip was subject to his orders. It also meant that he had to keep on the vest and trudge after Malcolm along this damn beach until the Lieutenant finally decided their reconnaissance of the environment was complete.
Malcolm stopped so suddenly in his tracks that Trip almost bumped into him.
“Wha-“
“We’re being followed,” Malcolm said. Before Trip had time to comprehend the words, he found himself shoved down in the sand behind a large boulder, a phase pistol pushed into his hand.
“Give me covering fire,” Malcolm ordered quietly, peering over the boulder’s edge at something in the nearby forest. “I’ll make a sally and try to get them out in the open.”
“You’ll make a what? Malcolm-“
But he had no time to ask Malcolm what exactly he was planning to do, and if it was possible that the heat had gotten to him more than was healthy. The Armory Officer leaped catlike over the boulder and performed a perfect drop and roll on the sand before he began to run towards the nearby trees, firing his phase pistol now and then. Had there been any enemies, he would have gotten them for sure, Trip thought, forgetting all about the covering fire he was supposed to give. Malcolm might be nuts, but he was still a sight to behold, moving with such uncanny speed and grace.
Shaking off the thought, Trip began to climb over the boulder. “Mal, what the hell’s goin’ on?”
“What are you doing?” Malcolm had stopped in his run and turned around, a frown descending on his face when he saw that Trip had left their hiding place. “I told you to give me covering fire.”
Trip shook his head. “There’s no one there!”
Malcolm stared at him, as if he were not quite able to believe his ears. “Well, of course there isn’t! That’s why they call it a simulation, don’t they?”
“A...” Trip broke off, feeling heat rise to his cheeks that had nothing to do with the sun. “Why the hell d’you need to simulate a gunfight when we’re here to try out these goddamn vests?”
Malcolm narrowed his eyes at him. “Well, obviously a trial phase includes battle situations as well. There won’t always be time to slip out of the vests before engaging in combat, will there?”
It was perfectly logical, which made Trip even madder. “You coulda told me, instead of just bargin’ off like a-“ He bit down on the rest of the sentence.
Malcolm stared at him, and Trip expected another venomous remark, or maybe a salve of stinging sarcasm. He had certainly given the man enough ammunition to use against him. Malcolm said nothing, though. For a second, a strange expression crossed his face, and was gone again so quickly that Trip wasn’t even sure it had been there at all. When he did speak, he said something quite unexpected.
“Maybe we should take a break.” Malcolm wiped a hand over his forehead, sighing as he did so. It was a weary, almost sad gesture, and Trip suddenly found himself overwhelmed by the urge to take his words back. He needn’t have flown off the handle like that... but what else was new? Where Malcolm was concerned, he seemed to have contracted a terminal case of foot-in-mouth disease. No wonder the Lieutenant didn’t like having him around.
“Yeah,” he agreed, not trusting himself to say anything else. He’d been incredibly slow on the uptake, had ruined Malcolm’s combat simulation and snapped at his Acting Commanding Officer. Might be a good idea to keep that big yap of his shut for a while.
Malcolm would no doubt appreciate it.
###
Malcolm’s simulation scenario would make a great adventure film, Trip thought, walking at a brisk pace in order to keep up with the Armory Officer. According to the script, they’d been fired at by a hostile ship and had crashed the shuttlepod close to the coast, avoiding a thruster explosion by the skin of their teeth. Swimming back and forth between the coast and the sinking shuttle, they’d been able to salvage a tent, two sleeping bags, rations and, of course, the vests. Trip’s suggestion that he had heroically risked his life to save a specially packed bag of marshmallows hadn’t gone down particularly well, and so the marshmallows stayed in the shuttle, together with Trip’s air mattress and the bottle of Kentucky bourbon. “How about a table and a few chairs while you’re at it,” Malcolm had snarked. Luckily, he hadn’t seen Trip hide a pack of hotdogs in his backpack. Marshmallows he could do without, but camping wasn’t camping without cooking hotdogs over the fire. Maybe they could pretend he had hunted down a few alien rodents. Trip shuddered. Or maybe not. It wouldn’t kill Malcolm if they had a few hotdogs on sticks, and besides, he could just imagine what the Lieutenant would have to say about the rodents.
Noticing that he had fallen behind, Trip picked up his pace. Malcolm had insisted that they go further inland, searching a supply of fresh water. The gunfight incident still in mind, Trip had not pointed out that he was carrying two liters of fresh water in his backpack, as was Malcolm himself. Apparently, it was all part of the simulation.
Eyeing the Lieutenant’s vest-clad back, he wondered, not for the first time, if Malcolm was secretly enjoying himself. He didn’t seem to be, but then, Malcolm was a master of deception. And he was undeniably in his element, planning survival strategies and simulating tactical situations, exploring unknown and potentially hostile terrain. Trip was willing to bet that Malcolm had been a big fan of “cops and robbers” as a kid (and he’d doubtlessly been one of the cops). It would be tempting to ask him about it; in fact, it would be tempting to ask him a lot of things, if Trip wasn’t so sure that he’d get cool stares and monosyllabic answers in reply.
He caught up with Malcolm again, falling into pace with the other man. At least marching was easier, now that they had left the scorching heat of the beach behind. The alien palm trees provided enough shade to keep the ground relatively cool. Huge, mangrove-like plants added an extra layer of protection, spreading their branches like sunshades. From time to time, Trip glimpsed something furry between the leaves, or a flutter of bright feathers when a bird fled from the invaders in its territory.
“This doesn’t look too bad,” Malcolm said finally, coming to a halt. Trip looked around. As a potential campsite, the place did look quite promising. Surrounded by palm trees, the clearing was wide enough to set up a tent and build a fireplace, and still have room to move around. Half of it was shaded by one of the mangrove trees, and most importantly, there was the supply of freshwater Malcolm had insisted on: a small, overgrown pond nestled against the mossy roots of the mangrove. As Trip watched, a tiny red snake disappeared into the water, leaving a trail of faint bubbles behind. He made a mental note to scan the water later.
“Home sweet home.” Shrugging off his backpack, he let himself plop into the sand, watching Malcolm who was methodically lining up his equipment on the ground. The Lieutenant raised his head, a slight smile touching his lips.
“You can take off the vest now, sir,” he said. “Before you do suffer a heatstroke.”
Trip didn’t need a second invitation. He slipped out of the heavy garment and placed it carefully on the ground, then pulled down the zipper of his uniform.
“Y’know,” he said, shrugging down the top half of his jumpsuit, “technically, you don’t hafta call me “sir”. You outrank me on this mission, remember?”
As he pulled off the sweatsoaked undershirt and tossed it aside, he noticed a strange expression on Malcolm’s face. Maybe the Lieutenant didn’t approve of Trip’s less-than-standard state of undress, but it was too damned hot to be wearing a black, long-sleeved shirt. He didn’t know how Malcolm could stand it.
“Then technically, it would be protocol for you to call me “sir”,” Malcolm said calmly, intent on his equipment again.
Trip blinked. “Well, yeah, but-“
Malcolm glanced up again, and Trip noticed the playful gleam in his eyes. He began to grin, relieved that it had been a joke and delighted that Malcolm was actually teasing him. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad.
“You had me goin’ there for a minute.”
Malcolm smiled, apparently satisfied.
“Y’know,” Trip continued, reaching for the bag that contained their tent, “maybe we should just drop ranks and all that, while we’re here. Might be easier.”
Might help you unwind a little, he added in thought. Maybe Malcolm guessed what he was thinking, for his smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. The look on his face was wary, almost suspicious.
“If you say so.”
It wasn’t exactly the enthusiastic response Trip had hoped for, but he let it slide. At least Malcolm hadn’t straight-up refused him.
They didn’t talk much while pitching the tent; or rather, while they watched it pitch itself. Malcolm and his team had perfected the mechanism; the tent opened and unfolded by itself, and all that was left to do was stick six pegs into the ground. Trip wondered if Malcolm had ever considered asking him for help with the design; he was, after all, an engineer. It was unlikely, though. Ninety-five percent of the time, Malcolm only called him to ask oh-so-politely for more weapons power, and the other five percent he complained not quite so politely about the power Trip had not given him. Malcolm would never dream of involving him in any of his pet projects.
Once the tent was standing, Trip crawled inside to have a look around. The old tent had been something of a tight squeeze, but the improved version offered more than enough room for two people and their gear. Also new were the pockets on either side of the inner tent; to store more equipment, Trip assumed. Malcolm and his team had really pulled out the stops.
He poked his head out the tent flap. “Looks great.”
“Thank you,” Malcolm replied without looking up from what he was doing. Trip wondered if there had been a trace of sarcasm in the Lieutenant’s voice. No, he decided. It was probably just Malcolm’s unapproachable attitude starting to get to him.
He grabbed their backpacks and sleeping bags. “You want the left or the right side?”
At that, Malcolm glanced up. “Whichever you prefer will be fine.” A sudden, furious blush spread on his face, and he hastened to add, “I mean, I’ll take the other side.”
“Sure.” Crawling back into the tent, Trip wondered what that had been all about. He’d caught Malcolm’s meaning the first time, and it wasn’t like the aloof Englishman to blush over a simple slip of the tongue. Maybe Malcolm just found the idea of physical proximity to a senior officer embarrassing. After all, he was really uptight about fraternization and all that. An unbidden image popped up in Trip’s mind, from some dusty corner of his subconscious he had all but forgotten about: Him and Natalie in a sleeping bag, fighting over the only pillow... she on top of him, giggling, her silky hair tickling his face. Only Natalie’s hair was curly and wiry, and as far as he remembered, not smooth to the touch at all. Not that he was ever going to refresh his memory, mind you. Long-distance relationships never work, and this is about as long-distance as you can get, he had told Jon. Maybe the Captain hadn’t realized it at the time, but he hadn’t only been referring to the geographical distance.
Frowning, he shook his head, pushing the memory away as he began to unroll the sleeping bags. Malcolm needn’t worry about getting too close to him; there was almost a meter of groundsheet between them. About as long-distance as you can get, Trip thought, a grin tugging at his mouth.
It was strange, though. Natalie’s hair wasn’t silky at all.
###
“This is nice,” Trip said, leaning back and staring into the crackling flames of the campfire. Malcolm’s fire-making tools had worked as perfectly as you please, lighting the brittle driftwood like tinder. Malcolm hadn’t simply thrown a pile of wood on the ground and set fire to it; he had laid out a neat circle of stones around a shallow dent in the sand, using a handful of dry palm fronds as kindling. He had even remembered to put a flat stone in the middle to balance a pot or pan on.
Malcolm threw him a brief look and poked at the fire with a stick, causing a cloud of sparks to fly up. The fire cast a soft glow over his features, making him look startlingly young. Trip realized that he had never thought about Malcolm’s age before. The question was out before he had time to think.
“How old are you, Malcolm?”
The look he got in return wasn’t entirely unfriendly. “I’m turning thirty in September. Why?”
Trip shrugged. “Just asking.”
Twenty-nine. He’d have guessed more like thirty-something. Not based on looks, but because Malcolm didn’t come across like someone who hadn’t yet left his twenties behind. Travis and Hoshi, yes, but not calm, quietly confident Lieutenant Reed.
“Thirty, huh?” Trip grinned, and aimed a poke at the fire himself. “We should have a party.”
Malcolm looked at him askance. “A party?” He said the word as if Trip had suggested they have an orgy on the bridge.
“Yeah, why not?” Trip asked, a bit defensively. “Might be fun.”
“I don’t think so.” Malcolm seemed to consider the subject closed. Reaching behind the log he was sitting on, he grabbed his backpack and took out several nutrition bars.
“We should try to gather some provisions in the morning,” he said, handing two of the bars to Trip. “These won’t last long.”
Having internalized the rules of Malcolm’s simulation by now, Trip didn’t mention the ration packs back in the shuttle. He got up from his log.
“Be right back.”
If Malcolm wanted to gather “provisions”, they could do that - tomorrow. Tonight, Trip had other plans. When he returned to the campfire five minutes later, he was carrying two thin sticks about the length of his arm.
“What are those for?” Malcolm frowned. “If you’re planning to make spears, you’ll need thicker sticks.”
Trip sat back down on his log. “I don’t need them for spears,” he replied, hooking one foot in the shoulder strap of his backpack and pulling it closer.
“Then why-“ Malcolm broke off when he saw what Trip was producing from his backpack.
“Hotdogs on sticks.” Trip turned his most winning smile on the Lieutenant. “Want some?”
Malcolm narrowed his eyes at him. “I remember telling you to leave those in the shuttle.”
“C’mon, Malcolm. Those bars taste worse than cardboard. ‘sides, we can try out those utility knives of yours to sharpen the sticks.”
“They weren’t designed for preparing a barbecue,” Malcolm grumbled, but Trip noticed that he had laid his half-eaten nutrition bar aside. Grinning, he handed Malcolm one of the sticks.
“Well, I’m sure they’ll do just fine.”
The knives did prove more than adequate to the job, and by the time they skewered a hotdog each, Malcolm’s mood had lightened considerably.
“Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea,” he admitted, watching as fat dripped down from his hotdog, sizzling in the flames.
Trip smiled. “I used to do this when I went camping with my buddies. Didn’t you?”
Malcolm’s eyes returned to the fire. “I don’t think I ever went camping the way you did,” he said finally. “I did go on several field trips with the Eagle Scouts. I’m not sure we ever had hotdogs on sticks, though.” He smiled as he said it, and while it was not a sad expression, something about it touched Trip. He only nodded in reply, wondering not for the first time if Malcolm’s childhood had been very different from his own. He had a feeling that it had been, but could think of no way to ask the man about it. Maybe that was just as well; some subjects were better left alone, especially given his tendency to put his foot in it.
They sat in silence for a while, and Trip wondered idly if he should have a look at Malcolm’s file to find out the exact date of his birthday. As Malcolm’s superior, he had unlimited access to the man’s confidential file. Trip didn’t go through anyone’s personal information as a habit, only when it was necessary, but he might make an exception in Malcolm’s case. The idea of throwing him a surprise party was too tempting to be dismissed out of hand. He knew Travis and Hoshi would be all for it. The only thing that put a damper on his excitement was that Malcolm hadn’t seemed to like the idea of celebrating at all. Not to mention the fact that luring him into a dark room and springing a surprise on him might not be a wise thing to do. The guy was, after all, the most dangerous man on the ship.
Pulling back his soot-blackened stick, Trip blew on the hotdog before taking a careful bite. He watched Malcolm retrieve his own hotdog, which he had been slowly turning over the fire for the last five minutes. Apparently, he handled cooking the way he did everything else; methodically and with little fuss, just a quiet guy going about his business. Trip just wished he wouldn’t be quite so quiet sometimes.
“Travis’ girlfriend wrote,” he said, opting for a safe topic (or gossip, as Hoshi wouldn’t have hesitated to point out). “She’s trying to get a transfer to Enterprise.”
“Oh?” Malcolm lifted his head.
“Yes, but it might take a while. She’s serving on the Susquehanna right now, but they might assign her to a new ship when she gets promoted.”
“I didn’t know Travis had a girlfriend,” Malcolm said.
Trip blinked. He’d always thought Travis and Malcolm were at least casual friends. “He only mentioned her once or twice,” he said, wishing he hadn’t brought up the subject at all. “I don’t think they’ve been together long.”
Malcolm didn’t seem too disturbed by the fact that Travis hadn’t told him. Maybe that’s what he’s used to, Trip thought. The idea made him sad.
He gave Malcolm a sideways glance and suddenly the question was out, before he had time to consider. “You got a girlfriend back home, Malcolm?”
Malcolm gave him a sharp look, eyes narrowing slightly. Trip was startled, if not entirely surprised, by the sudden anger in the man’s face.
“I don’t think that’s any of your business, Commander,” Malcolm said, emphasizing Trip’s rank. He hesitated for a moment before continuing, “I really don’t know why you’re asking me this.”
“Malcolm...”
Malcolm pushed his stick into the fire and got up. “I’ll see you in the morning, Commander. Good night.”
Trip watched him leave. It was amazing at times, the way his mouth got ahead of his brain and jabbered out the one thing that was bound to get him in trouble. Still, it wasn’t as if he had insulted the man, had he? What was so hard about “No, I’m between relationships right now” or “Yes, her name’s Alice and we’re planning to be married at the local church as soon as I’m back”? He would have told Malcolm about Natalie, if he’d asked. He’d have told him about the letter, and maybe even about his guilt-ridden relief that it had been her, not him, who had taken that inevitable final step. But that was the thing; Malcolm hadn’t asked, and by letting his mouth run away with him, Trip had just managed to ensure that it was going to be a very long three days. He sighed, giving the left-over hotdogs a morose look. He wasn’t really hungry anymore, either.
###
Later, Trip lay in his sleeping bag, listening to the sounds of the nightly forest, strange cries echoed by faint responses further away. He had stayed at the fire long enough so that Malcolm could safely pretend to be asleep when he turned in. Sure enough, he found the Lieutenant ensconced in his sleeping bag, his back turned to the world in general and Trip in particular. He hadn’t moved since Trip had come in, his quiet, even breathing hardly audible. Maybe he really was asleep. Or maybe not. It was so hard to tell anything for sure with him.
Sighing, Trip rolled over, facing the inside of the tent. He had gone over their conversation at least half a dozen times, but he couldn’t quite figure out what had gone so fundamentally wrong. Clearly, Malcolm had been angry, but was it only because Trip had asked him a personal question? Maybe something had happened that Malcolm would rather not talk about, and he had launched a pre-emptive strike so Trip wouldn’t press him for details?
I’d like to think you know me better than that, Trip thought, eyeing the silent back presented to him. I wouldn’t have pushed you. Or teased you.
But then, that was exactly what Malcolm would expect of him, wasn’t it? He was always pushing the man, teasing him, trying to get under his skin. The way Malcolm got under his.
Skin, Trip thought, barely aware that his mind was drifting off to sleep. Natalie had nice skin. Smooth, pale but of an elegant, marble quality. Skin he would like to touch. Skin he would like to uncover, remove the layers of fabric, and... blue fabric. Yes, blue fabric. He wanted to see what was beneath those layers, wanted to touch, kiss, caress. Feel that silky hair under his fingers, on his lips. That chocolate brown hair.
Wonder if it tastes sweet, he thought, and then he fell asleep, unaware that he was smiling, and unaware when, five minutes later, the man in the other sleeping bag slowly turned around, his eyes open and staring into the dark between them.
Onto Part II