AUTHOR: Mnemosyne
DISCLAIMER: Oh lordy, SO not mine.
SUMMARY: An answer to the "Woke up FAIRY!" challenge, courtesy of bexless at LiveJournal. Sparkly purple Malcolm Reed -- what else do you need? ;)
RATING: PG-13
NOTES:
This story has absolutely NO basis in reality, let alone the canon of the show. It takes place in some ambiguous time after the crew has returned from the Delphic Expanse. If the idea of Malcolm with wings frightens you, TURN AWAY NOW. ;) Otherwise, enjoy!
The Delphic Expanse had left its mark on the entire crew of Enterprise. It had given them unforgettable memories, blistering nightmares, incredible pride… and… other things.
"G'rak, I am not going to continue arguing with you," Captain Archer barked at the viewscreen. "Turn your ship around and - hang on. Malcolm?"
"Sir?"
"Could you stand back a bit? I think I'm allergic to your… glitter."
"Dust, sir."
"Yes, whatever it's called, could you move it back a few steps?"
"Flaps, sir."
"WHAT. EVER."
"Aye, sir."
"Thank you." Taking a deep breath -- and immediately regretting it as phosphorescent dust coated his lungs and throat and made his chest burn with the urge to cough -- Archer turned back to the viewscreen, and the visibly angry Klingon glowering at him. "Where were we?"
"Your insolence will be rewarded with blood and smoke!" G'rak snarled.
"I'll take that under advisement. You have one hour to leave this sector, or I will be forced to open fire. And unless you want the entire mass of Earth and Vulcan forces in the area descending on your position, I suggest you hold your tongue and your fire, and think about what I've just said." Archer nodded to Hoshi, who nodded back, tapped a few buttons on her console, and the screen went blank save for a star field and Bird of Prey bristling with weaponry.
"They have not deactivated their weapons, Captain," T'Pol said coolly from her station. "But they are not powering up to fire."
"Good," Archer said, breathing a sigh of relief. "Do you think they'll listen this time?"
"Highly unlikely, sir," Malcolm chirped from his weapon's console. "Klingons are a thick-headed bunch." Sparkle.
Archer glanced at his armory officer, then away. "Um… Malcolm, would you come with me? There's something we need to discuss."
Glitter. "Aye, sir." Twinkle, flutter.
Archer sighed. His crew had been through hell the past four years, and they'd each been scarred in ways both visible and internal. He'd learned to accept those changes; had integrated them into his daily management of the crew. He'd seen his male engineer pregnant, his linguist insane, and his young pilot dead.
But having an Armory officer who was three inches tall with shimmery gossamer wings and a kill-em-all attitude took the cake.
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"Malcolm…" Archer settled into his office chair, crossing his hands over his stomach, and tried to think of a delicate way to broach the topic of his security officer's… condition. When nothing came immediately to mind, he smiled. "How have you been?"
Malcolm had settled in a chair on the other side of the desk. It dwarfed him utterly. "I'm well, Captain," he said, with a sharp inclination of his head. A small semi-circle of purple glitter had begun to form around him as his dragonfly wings flexed rhythmically.
"Getting enough sleep? Eating regular meals?"
"Yes, captain."
"Good, good." Archer tapped his thumbs together. "That's… good."
"Captain, I imagine I know why you've called me in here."
"Mm?"
"It's about my being a fairy, sir, isn't it?"
Archer paused before answering. "Malcolm," he finally began, "I want you to know, I have nothing against you personally. You're the best armory officer in the fleet. It's just… Look, we've been getting reports of couplings and energy buffers being gummed up by purple pixie dust, and a number of crew members have been reporting seasonal allergy symptoms to Doctor Phlox. Which is unusual, since we don't have seasons aboard a starship. Then there's the extremely difficult situation of my armory officer being a quarter of a foot tall with iridescent wings and a shimmering purple leotard." He held out his hands in defeat. "Tell me honestly, Malcolm. Would YOU be afraid of you?"
Launching himself into the air with a sharp upthrust of his wings, Malcolm bobbed across the desk towards the captain. "May I speak to you man to man, Captain?" he asked.
Archer let his eyes briefly flick over his armory officer's tiny stature. "Sure," he said dubiously.
Malcolm came to a hovering stop an arm's length from Archer's face. "I don't believe you understand the value of having a fairy in your service. Yes, I'll admit that being so small can be tedious, and the pixie dust can be rather… vexing." He glowered briefly over his shoulder, wiggling his wings and sending a shower of shimmering powder onto Archer's desk. "But I've found that beyond mere matters of convenience and arm reach -- and certain interpersonal relations which are largely unimportant to this conversation -- my transformation into a fairy hasn't impeded my performance in any way. And while I might not LOOK very menacing, just THINK of the element of surprise I provide!"
Archer cleared his throat. "Yes, but Malcolm, generally an "element of surprise" is supposed to intimidate, shock, or terrify an opponent. You really don't fit that bill."
"Perhaps not, but I have other qualities."
"Such as?"
"I fluster."
"What?"
"Fluster. A verb, which means to confuse or aggravate."
"Yes, Malcolm, thank you, but I know what fluster means. And while a flustered Klingon is no doubt a sight to see, I'd rather see him shocked and alarmed at our military prowess."
"The Delphic Expanse may have infected me with this Pixie Bug, Captain, but I assure you, it didn't strip me of any of my militant tendencies."
"That may be true-"
"I've taken to exploring the internal workings of our phase cannons, actually. Fascinating stuff. The detail is incredible at this size."
"Very good, but-"
"Of course, I was a bit radioactive there for a while, but nothing I couldn't handle."
"Malcolm-"
"I have to go back with a dust pan, actually. I think I might have gotten some pixie dust in the firing mechanism of torpedo tube three."
Archer could feel the conversation getting away from him. "MALCOLM," he said firmly, bringing the armory officer's chatter to a blinking halt. "Thank you, it's good to hear you've gotten a hobby, and I'm glad to hear you're just as nutty about bombs as ever. But that still doesn't solve the problem of you just not being very scary. I hate to invoke your previous humanness, but… well, when you were human you were intimidating. Now you're more of a… nuisance."
"Sir, I am NOT a nuisance."
"No, but that's the perception of you by people we meet. Oh, look, it's the great ship Enterprise and her little nuisance of an armory officer. Let's blow her out of the sky. God, it's becoming a weekly ritual. Why do you think G'rak and his Klingon buddies have decided it's okay to come hassle Earth on the very edges of our solar system? They think they can get away with it. Which is completely untrue, of course, but I've only got so much diplomatic charity in me before I stop talking first and just start shooting ships out of the sky before they even hail us to demand our surrender."
Archer stopped. It was hard to describe the look on Malcolm's face, but Sparkly Rage came close.
Sighing, the captain sat back in his chair. "I want you to take some time off," he said.
A flare of purple light exploded around Malcolm, followed by an eruption of violet glitter. "Captain!" the tiny officer protested.
Archer raised a hand. "Doctor Phlox says he's getting close to a cure, Malcolm. You can come back to duty in three weeks, or after Phlox has given you the antidote, whichever comes first. Look, I know this is hard for you. The wings, the eyeliner, the revealing outerwear. Just… take a little me time. Commune with your inner brownie. Do whatever your little heart desires. No pun intended."
Malcolm was spitting with rage. Literally. Sparks of indigo energy were jumping off his body. But his voice was remarkably even when he replied, "Yes, sir. Very well, sir. Whatever you say, sir. May I go, sir?"
Archer gestured to the door. "I mean it, Malcolm," he intoned seriously as he watched his armory officer fly away. "RELAX."
Malcolm flicked him a salute, then zoomed through the door in a puff of purple smoke.
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"Take a little ME time, Malcolm," Reed muttered as he zipped in close circles around the interior of his cabin. "Stupid wanker. Commune with your inner brownie. Brownies are BROWN, idiot, not purple, hence the name. Bloody stupid man. Complete git. Couldn't captain a ship if he had a book called Ship Captaining For Complete Gits and Stupid Wankers, and That Means You, Jonathan Archer."
Coming to a jogging stop on his dresser, he stared at himself in the mirror. Lord, he looked like a fool. Why was he complaining? Archer was correct. Look at him. He FLUTTERED. It was absolutely impossible to command a security team in the heat of battle while FLUTTERING. That was why butterflies and Tufted Titmice had a notoriously difficult time getting into the Academy.
He plucked at the sleeve of his costume. Honestly, sequined purple spandex? What sick biological engineer had concocted THAT brilliant idea? Damn this Pixie Bug and it's penchant for purple. He HATED purple. Give him a good, bloody red or a strong, navy blue any day of the week over pansy PURPLE. Not to mention, anybody who bothered to look close enough could see EVERYTHING. Every nuance of his proud physique; he refused to use any other adjective but proud. The fact that anyone who actually WANTED to see anything would have to use a magnifying glass did nothing to improve his mood.
His door chime jangled, jolting him out of his self-examination. "Who is it?" he snapped, annoyed that his voice sounded like he'd been sucking on a helium-filled balloon.
"It's me, little buddy!"
Malcolm rolled his eyes. "Oh, God."
The door rolled open and Trip sauntered into the room, a huge grin plastered on his face. "So, the cap'n said he'd given you a little time off."
Trip was one of Malcolm's closest friends -- possibly THE closest. The southerner had interpreted this as giving him free reign to poke merciless fun at the armory officer's predicament, which inevitably took the form of absolutely GHASTLY puns. "Sod off, Tucker," Malcolm muttered, sitting on the handle of his hairbrush and setting his chin on his hand. "I'm not in the mood."
"Just having a little fun is all, Malcolm. No big deal."
Malcolm buried his face in his hands.
"Aw come on, buck up, Mal," Trip encouraged, putting his hands on his knees and leaning down to eye level with the tiny officer. "Things aren't so bad, are they?"
"I'm three inches tall and look like a carnival attraction."
"Yeah, but at least you aren't TWO inches tall, right? Silver linings, pal, silver linings."
Malcolm raised his head and gave his friend a withering stare, which was only slightly diluted by his iridescent skin. "The last time I had sexual relations with a woman was six months ago, Trip. I don't see that number lessening anytime soon, either, unless I meet someone particularly adventurous who comes equipped with tiny scuba gear. I believe that trumps any silver linings, don't you?"
Trip chuckled. "Look, your problem is you spend too much time sulking in this room instead of interacting with the rest of the crew. You need to get out! Come to movie night with me and Travis." He waggled his eyebrows. "It's a waaaar mooovie," he sing-songed enticingly.
Malcolm resisted the urge to ask which one. "Thank you for the offer, Trip, but since I seem to shed some kind of highly allergenic substance, I'll have to pass. Unless I want a big sneeze from a person in the row behind us sending me careening into the screen."
"Don't make me stuff you in a little bag, Malcolm. I'll do it. I've got a little bag all set aside, just for the occasion. Says Malcolm on it and everything."
"Charming."
"Come on, Mal. What could it hurt? We'll sit in the back row. Then no one can sneeze behind you, and if someone in front of us sneezes, we'll blame it on Travis' aftershave."
Malcolm glared at him for a few seconds more, then let his shoulders sag. "Oh, fine," he grumbled, standing up. "But don't expect me to enjoy it."
"You'll love it," Trip said with an insufferable grin of triumph. He held out his shoulder. "Hop on."
Malcolm pushed up into the air, wings fluttering silently. "Which movie is it?" he asked, settling on Trip's shoulder.
"Bridge On the River Kwai," Trip told him as they headed towards the door. "You know, I WISH T'Pol would come. I think she'd like it."
"Don't do that," Malcolm snapped.
"Do what?" Trip asked innocently.
"Make wishes. I've told you, I can't grant wishes. It's a wasted effort on your part."
"Well, how do you know?"
"I just know."
"Have you ever tried?"
"Yes, of course I've tried. Do you think I'd still be small if I could grant wishes?"
"Perhaps you ought to try granting someone ELSE'S wish. Maybe that'd work."
"Trip, I can only imagine the kinds of things you'd wish for, and the answer is no."
"Not even if I wished for a piece of grandma's pecan pie? We can split it."
"NO!"
The door swished shut behind them.
Three seconds later, there was a PUFF of purple smoke in Malcolm's abandoned cabin. When it cleared, it revealed T'Pol, holding a blue china plate on which sat a generous helping of pecan pie.
The Vulcan blinked, looked around, looked at the pie, and raised an eyebrow.
"Intriguing," she said. "Most intriguing indeed."
THE END