AN: Huge thanks to Gabi for betaing! I had intended this to be my entry for Drown Malcolm month; however, Gabi rightly pointed out to me that it's not really Malcolm who drowns. So, I decided to post it as a "regular" fic and let you decide whether it qualifies for DMM or not ;). The story takes place after the end of Season 4, ignoring TATV as always.

This is not Slash, although it could be read that way. I'll leave that up to you.

Enjoy!

I don't drink.

I just don't. I don't like most alcoholic drinks; the taste doesn't agree with me. Take beer, for example. I'll drink it when it's ice cold, preferably at a barbecue where there's enough spicy food to kill the bitter aftertaste. Plain old beer, though? I think I'll pass.

Or wine. I only have to sniff the red stuff to get a headache of major proportions, and white wine... let's just say it tends to cause gastro-intestinal problems that are best avoided in polite company.

That leaves the hard stuff, vodka and brandy, but I've never been a big fan of those, either. I get hangovers fairly easily, and those give you killers. Like our binge on the shuttlepod. We drank as if there was no tomorrow, as if Kentucky bourbon was the only way to stay warm. We did, and we regretted it. In a way, I still do.

Cocktails are okay most of the time; those Mai Tais Malcolm and I had on Risa weren't bad. Getting drunk on cocktails is something you do at a party, though; not alone in a bar, surrounded by strangers who are nursing their lonely drinks, like you have been doing for the last two hours. Cocktails would seem out of place there. In a bar like that, once you've managed to find one in bustling, noisy San Fran, you don't order a Pina Colada or Tequila Sunrise. It isn't done.

So what am I doing here if I don't drink? I don't really know, to tell the truth. There's a glass of... something sitting in front of me on the counter, something that looks and smells like medicine. Only that it'll bring on the symptoms instead of relieving them. There's the king of all hangovers right in front of me, waiting to be finished. And you know, I think I am going to finish it... finish more of them before the evening is over, even though I don't drink.

Make that usually. Usually I don't drink. Tonight... exception to the rule, okay? There's got to be an exception to every rule, every one of those damn rules we need to inject some sense into our lives... maybe just to have something to do. What would we do if there were no rules, no familiar patterns to follow? We'd drift, that's what. Drift somewhere without an aim or purpose, and sooner or later we'd run into someone who wants to kill us because they have no rule that forbids killing. Or maybe they have a rule that says, Thou shalt kill. Thou shalt pluck out the right eye of anyone who causeth thee to stumble, and thou shalt cut off the hand and foot of anyone who offends thee. And there we'd be, minus one hand, minus our right eye, wondering what the hell just happened. Because we've forgotten about rules, how they anchor you and tie you down and keep you on the straight and narrow and keep away all the nastiness that we don't want to see or hear or feel, that we don't understand.

Fuck. I don't even know what that's supposed to mean. Sometimes I think I'm starting to lose it. Seriously. I'm drifting, too; drifting off all the time, my thoughts going in circles and biting their own tails. I don't know what to do anymore. That's why I came here tonight. I needed something to keep me on the straight and narrow... keep my mind out of trouble.

Problem is, I don't drink. I'm not used to drowning pain in alcohol, and maybe, just maybe, I don't even want it to go away. Maybe I want it to stay right here with me, keep me company. Maybe, without it, I'd be left all alone, and that would be even worse.

When she died, exactly two years ago, I never even touched a glass, never spent an evening in my quarters finishing a bottle of something-or-other to dull my grief. I wanted to hold on to it. I wanted to let it ferment and turn into hate. And that was what happened, it turned into pure, undiluted hate, all shiny and tasty, sitting there and waiting for me.

Problem is, I don't drink.

When she died, something inside me died as well. I know it's a cliché, but that doesn't make it any less true. Something died, and suddenly everyone I knew seemed... well, less alive, in a way. Less important. Take Malcolm. There he was, talking about memorial services and closure, and it all seemed so dead, so insignificant. And all I thought was, why couldn't it have been your sister, why couldn't she have died instead, you don't care about her anyway.

Thank God I didn't say that. That piece of mental filth was never spoken aloud, and for that I'm deeply grateful even now. Even if I said some hurtful things to him, things for which I haven't completely forgiven myself, either. Still... thank God.

It all seemed dead, dead or dying. Lizzie was dead, Enterprise was dying, bit by bit, circuit by circuit, the life dripping out of her and fading away into the vacuum of space. Seven million were dead, and the crew was dying, getting killed because we didn't have a goddamn clue what we were doing, or if there was even a way of getting it done.

And there was T'Pol. She wasn't dying, she was killing something inside herself by taking Trellium-D, but at the time, I didn't know. That's something else for which I'll always be grateful. Because I might have slept with her even if I'd known. It was all dead, and only she was alive, or seemed to be. She seemed to be alive, and she made me feel alive as well, if only for a few, precious, empty moments.

By the time I found out how badly she was hurting, it was too late. I'd only added to hurt by creating an image of her, the image of an essentially human woman who had to be rescued from herself, from a culture that wouldn't let her be herself. Enter me, the hero, who waltzes in and saves the damsel in distress. And she was in distress, all right, only that I was too preoccupied to see it. Saved her? Right. The only thing we ever did was make ourselves miserable, seeking physical closeness because that was the only way we could touch. The bond... it scared the hell out of me, I hated it, didn't want her to see the rotting wasteland that was – is - my mind. And she? She kept a tight control over herself, but once or twice I got a glimpse, and what I saw there wasn't the artificial persona I had made her out to be. What I saw was alien, different, and wanting, needing to be different. She didn't need to be rescued. She didn't need her feelings set free. In fact, I didn't understand just what she needed. I only knew that it was something I can't give her.

She cut the bond, shortly after our daughter had died. Again, it was death that connected us, an experience we shared... maybe the only experience we ever shared. I did what I'd have done with a human, tried to comfort her, and while I was doing it I sensed that I was only causing her more pain. Intruding, polluting her mind with emotions that weren't natural to her.

So, she cut the bond.

I was released.

And I was relieved.

I'm alone. That, too. And I still don't drink. I don't drink, which is a shame, because I want, I need to drown them.

Drown her.

Drown Elisabeth.

Drown Lizzie.

Drown Malcolm.

Drown myself.

Maybe just myself. Maybe that would be enough.

I found him in a bar last night. I'd been looking for him, but I didn't recognize him at first, slumped on that stool like an old man. He was so thoroughly shitfaced that he could hardly walk. I more or less carried him out of there, leaving him to sit on the kerb while I called us a cab.

I've never known him to drink. Not that way.

It was raining, and by the time the cab arrived, we looked like a pair of drowned rats. The state he was in, I didn't want to risk leaving him alone, so instead of dropping him off at his place, I took him back to mine.

Here's a Sad Fact about the life of Malcolm Reed: That was the first time in almost a decade that I took someone home with me on a Saturday night. And I'm not even sure it counts, if the someone can hardly climb the stairs to your flat and spends the night in an alcohol-induced coma, snoring like a walrus with a bad case of sinus infection.

In my bed, yes. I slept on the couch. Well, maybe "slept" is the wrong term. Mostly I lay awake, listening to him sawing away, thinking of how I'd found him. Thinking of those last few months on Enterprise without him, wondering how he was spending the "time away" he insisted he needed to take. Wondering if he was going to come back.

Since last night, I think I know the answer to that one. I think I know, and I think I've come to a decision. Not sure if it's the right one, given my talent to bugger things up, but it seems to be something I have to do. Or want to do. I'm not sure about that one, either.

Enterprise will be in drydock for another three weeks, so there should be time to make the arrangements. Hell, it's not as if no one wants the job; they're all eager to go into space and play with real guns, for a change.

As for myself, I think I've played enough.

And I believe I'm needed here right now; needed by a friend who is... drifting. That's what he said, last night when I was lugging him up the stairs. He is drifting, and without anything to hold on to, he may be drowning soon.

Unless someone lends a hand. It's ironic to think that it should be me, the aquaphobic who's been afraid of drowning since he was a child, but maybe this is Life's subtle way of telling me to get over myself. Who knows?

He's still asleep, the covers askew, one arm flung across the bed. When he wakes, I'll give him some of Phlox' patented hangover cure, and make him breakfast.

And then we'll talk. What about, I'm not sure, but I believe there's plenty to discuss, plenty we should have talked about months, maybe years ago. But there is still time. That's something I know for sure.

Time is one thing we do have.

FIN

AN: The title was borrowed from the poem "All Day I Hear the Noise of Waters" by Malcolm's favorite author :).

All day I hear the noise of waters
Making moan,
Sad as the sea-bird is when, going
Forth alone,
He hears the winds cry to the water's
Monotone.

The grey winds, the cold winds are blowing
Where I go.
I hear the noise of many waters
Far below.
All day, all night, I hear them flowing
To and fro.

Feedback is as always very welcome!