A Question of Gravity, a startrek: enterprise fanfic

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimers: Show wouldn't have been canceled, that's for goddamn sure.

Spoilers: The Aenar, obviously, and hints at Malcolm's past for Affliction.

Etc.: This is pretty just me being pissed off at cancellation, Trip's leaving, T/T'P, (Yeah, I'm not exactly keen on that and it shows so maybe shippers shouldn't read this. I kinda bash T'Pol a little. Even though I use her in my other stories. I'm weird, okay? Deal with it.), and pretty much everything else under the sun.

"From birth, man carries the weight of gravity on his shoulders. He is bolted to earth. But man has only to sink beneath the surface and he is free." Jacques Cousteau

"Gravity is a kind of mystical behavior in the body, invented to conceal the defects of the mind." François, Duc De La Rochefoucauld

A Question of Gravity

I like flying.

I suppose I always have. I always liked the rollercoaster's at theme parks and whatever; going really fast, pausing at the top of the crest and then—nothing. You put your hands up and you scream and scream and—whoosh—you're through the air, like an untamed bird. There's just something about being in the air, going against physics and gravity and all those other doctrines of science. Being way up there in the middle of the air—it's freeing.

That's why I pilot the shuttles a lot, I guess. I like to be in control of this rollercoaster.

I've never really gotten over doing the barrel rolls, either.

I think that's why, when the captain told everyone about this little outing with me as pilot—my last outing, my last joy ride as a Starfleet officer aboard the NX-01, my last—okay, I'm getting maudlin—no one wanted to come along.

Except Malcolm. He likes the barrel rolls too.

Did I mention I'm not exactly looking forward to this trip anymore? I mean, Malcolm's a great guy—after you get passed the stiff, prissy, pissy British part—and he tells wicked jokes like you wouldn't believe ("A university class was asked to write a short story using as few words as possible. It was to include: 1.) Religion, 2.) sexuality, and 3.) mystery. Only one student got a perfect score. Their story was: Good God, I'm pregnant, I wonder who it was?"), but he can also hold a grudge and be mad at you like you wouldn't believe too.

Problem is—I'm the one he's mad at.

"Commander," he says, entering the pod. He sits down and starts checking some controls on his side of the pod. Cold like ice, that one.

"Malcolm," I reply. He's really pissed off with me.

"Everything's ready on this side," he announces.

Good God, it's like a snowstorm in here. But I'll fight cold with more cold, Mr. Reed.

"Excellent," I say. Looking at my controls. "We're ready to go, Cap'n."

"Good flying." He sounds kind of sad when he says it and I know that's my fault but there are just some things a guy can go through…. I take the shuttle out of the bay and into the dark space. Malcolm has yet to speak and, yeah, that one's my fault too. I'm just a bundle of goodwill these days, ain't I?

"Were you going to leave without saying good-bye?" asks Malcolm suddenly. He sounds so…broken up about it. I don't answer.

I can't even look at him, for fear of the look in his eyes.

"Couldn't even re-arrange the stones from The Swamp for a farewell," he mutters, puttering about on his side.

"What?" I say. I still don't turn around.

"It's an old television programme from the twentieth century; I wouldn't expect you to know," he replies. I turn to look at him, just a little; I didn't know he watched old TV shows and he's kind of offending my geekness right now, so I figure I turn is okay and in order, just as long as I don't look directly at him and don't see his eyes.

He's looking out the window.

I'm really hurting him with this and I really wish I wasn't but, hey, there are just some things a guy can go through before he breaks. Malcolm knows this. He's real close to breaking too.

I just wish he'd recognize it.

An hour of not talking, three barrel rolls, and a switch of pilot later, Malcolm and I are nearing the planet.

"Yew want me to take it in?" I ask, puttering around in the back. The silence has gotten heavy and I really can't take it anymore. I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry I didn't tell you and I'm sorry I didn't give you a chance to talk me out of it, because God knows you could've.

"I've got it."

Did he take lessons or something?

I grunt and poke one of our bags with a wrench. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…. So much a guy can handle, remember? Oh, wait—I was having a conversation with myself when we went over that one, and I'm doing it again, aren't I?

Suddenly, something beeps loudly. I turn. Malcolm's hitting the controls with the heel of his hand.

"Lieutenant?" I ask, hurrying up behind him.

"Turbulence," he answers tersely.

"Don't look like turbulence to me," I say.

He glares.

I back off a little, saying, "I'll do a diagnostic from over here." Boy, if looks could kill…

More things start to beep while I do my diagnostic and Malcolm admits, "It may not be turbulence anymore."

That's when we crash.

When I wake up, I'm leaning against a chair and my head hurts. A head wound; that's usually a consequence of a crash, I think. I reach my hand up and feel around in my hair. Oh yeah, I think when I hit a large lump on the back of my skull—head wounds and crashes go hand in hand. I pull my hand away from the goose egg, thankful that it's not bleeding.

There's something nagging in the back of my head. I pause, thinking. British, pissy—Malcolm! I get up and, on wobbly legs, try to make my way over to where I remember him last being. I see a leg sticking out from underneath the consol and pick up my pace—even though I'm sure I look ridiculous.

He's laying there, unconscious, an ugly bruise on his cheekbone in high resolution. I fight the urge to poke it; what can I say, I'm a child at heart.

I check him over, making sure his neck isn't broken or anything and then I move him. I drag him beneath his arms to the middle of the pod before finishing my examination. I find that his wrist is twisted and bruised. I poke his ribs and he shoots up like a man waking up from a nightmare. I fall backwards a little. He curls around himself a little. I scramble back to him, worried that I hurt him.

"Malcolm?" I ask, putting my hand on his shoulder. He jerks himself away from my touch like I was burning him.

"Fine, fine—I'm fine," he works out. Sure, you keep telling yourself that, buddy.

"Okay, yew just lay here then," I tell him, trying to humor him. "I'm gonna go make sure that the pod's fine."

He nods. I roll my eyes. Like I needed his permission.

I look around the pod. We seem to be in good shape here; nothing's loose or anything like that, which is something I consider a victory. I go to the hatch and open it. Snow pours in. I shut it quickly and belatedly realize the window's fogged with snow. Malcolm's laughing at me, wheezing a little.

Yeah, like that would've never happened to you, Mr. High-And-Mighty.

"Shut up," I growl, though he's talking to me a bit so that's a nice change of pace and I'd like to keep it that way. I wander over to him. He's still curled on his side and he's a bit pasty. Not like that's unusual or anything, but more so than normal.

"Sure went to some crazy lengths to make sure I don't leave the ship, eh, Malcolm?" I joke.

"Well, Commander, you know how I am when someone had been actually willing to befriend me: I try my damnedest not to let go."

Malcolm meets my eyes and he looks away, embarrassed, and I realize he wasn't exactly joking when he said that.

And I feel like an ass.

I go back to the controls, trying to put as much distance between him, me, and the hurt as I can. I don't think I'll ever get far enough.

"Dammit!" I curse loudly.

"What is it?" asks Malcolm. For all you folks tuning in, he is definitely still talking to me. I think this merits a round of applause. The rest of our current condition, however, does not.

"Engines got busted in the crash," I tell him.

"I thought you said we were intact," he says, a confused furrow on his brow.

"I was wrong," I snap. "The best of engineers can be wrong, yew know. It's not like we're always right. We like to be, but it's not, yew know, a prerequisite to being an engineer. Sometimes we fail. Don't like doin' it either but hey, I want a toilet made out of solid gold so we can't always get what we want, yew know? And so sometimes, we just gotta suck it up and bite the bullet or whatever and we gotta stay strong and forge the pass and just face the grim dawn."

Malcolm's gone cross-eyed.

"Communications are out too," I say, a little meek, turning back to the controls.

"You know what?" says Malcolm suddenly, after a moment. He's gasping a little in between words and I know that something's hurting him, something inside, but he won't tell me. That's the problem with Malcolm; he's always fine, not matter what is going on. It's a doctrine, really-Thou shalt always be fine. If the world was blowing up around us, if we were about to die in a horrible, fiery crash, if a crazy miniature purple dinosaurs were attacking him, if his leg was being severed by homicidal alien sociopaths with blunt butter knives—"'Tis but a scratch"; "It's only a flesh wound."

No! No, you are not 'fine', you crazy limey! They're cutting your leg off with a blunt butter knife!

You see, it's been my experience that, with Malcolm, when the shit hits the fan, it hits him too.

And then the fan short circuits and falls on him.

"I think Jacques Cousteau was nutters," he tells me with great confidence, despite the, you know, wheezing.

Well, I think. That came out of no where.

"I think yew fried something in the crash," I reply. I go back to the controls, making a mental note: Malcolm's got a concussion and he won't admit it. Administer drugs when he is unconscious. It'll make him even more pissed off at me but I figure he'll at least feel a little better and that's got to count for something, right?

Apparently, Malcolm's seconds thought it would be funny to put a bunch of blankets and other things someone that's been stranded could use in our pod, just in case we got stuck in cold space again. How do I know it was them? They left a note.

Dear Sirs,

As you know, we like to look after our boss; know that he's safe, comfortable, being made fun of—all that good stuff. Given the track record of the two of you, we thought it prudent to send a long a care package. You have lots of blankets, a good med kit (Boss tends to get into some scrapes, it has been our experience), extra food, etc. We hope that both of you are having a lovely time and that you get home in one piece.

(You are known as the Disaster Twins, you know.)

Sincerely,

Lieutenants (j.g.) Fritz Schlosser David Webster, Armory

I would contemplate retribution, but those blankets and extra food supplies are really going to help. It's very cold here and Malcolm could go into shock. The med kit is just a freakin' blessing. Also, I'm not at all ashamed to admit I'm a little frightened of Malcolm's SICs.

They're known as the Gruesome Twosome for a reason, after all. (Rumor has it that they have a mini arsenal of automated Lego AT-AT Walkers with fully functional weapons systems.)

I'm sitting in a chair, watching Malcolm sleep (on a pile of blankets provided by his SICs). His breathing is labored and I'm really worried. I don't think that I'm going to be able to take care of him. I have a rudimentary knowledge of emergency medicine but not enough for what he's going to need. Damn, I think.

Malcolm twists in his sleep and coughs. It's a sick wet sound and I close my eyes against it, like not seeing would block it all out.

I fail.

So I get up and pace a little. There has got to be a way to get the communications system working. Something's obviously hinky inside. But the question is, what? Is it the relays? Maybe a wire got knocked loose and if I figure out which one and manage to get it back to its original spot…. I wander over to the front of the pod and start to pry open the consol with a wrench.

This is when Malcolm wakes up.

"What are you doing?" he asks. His voice sounds just as wet as his cough.

"Tryin' to fix communications," I reply, not turning to look at him.

He coughs. "Do you know what's wrong?"

"No," I say. "But I intend to find out."

"Right, sir," he says. He coughs again.

I turn around, concerned. "There's some lozenges in the med kit your SICs gave us. Why don't yew take one?"

"I'll be all right," he tells me. I watch him skeptically.

"If yer sure," I say slowly. He nods. I start to turn around. And then he coughs. I spin back and glare at him. "Take a damn lozenge," I say. "And don't make me make that an order."

Malcolm coughs some more and waves a hand at me, dismissively. He rolls over on his side and just lays there, huffing and breathing hard. I frown at him; am I gonna have to shove one of them in his mouth when he falls back asleep too? I sigh and turn around. I smile a little. At least he hasn't realized that I gave him a little something for his head last time he was conked out.

I gain a little head way in my repairs of the communications system when Malcolm goes into a full blown attack. I'm so startled by its suddenness that I damn near fall out of the chair. I turn and he's curled in a little ball, his entire body shaking violently. I cover the ground between us in less than a second. I grab his shoulder.

"Hey, buddy, deep breaths," I instruct.

"Kind of—hard—when one—can't breathe," he bites out around the coughs. He adds, just because he's in pain, I'm sure, "Jackass."

I laugh, even though I'm not sure I'm supposed to. "At least yew kept yer sense of humor, eh?"

"Go to—hell," he grounds out. I pat his shoulders. The coughing has yet to subside and I'm getting worried. Eventually, he gives one last attempt at removing his lungs via his mouth, and rolls over, his head resting in the crook of my elbow.

I nearly scream when I see the blood lacing the corners of his mouth.

"What?" he asks, seeing the look on my face. I reach out and touch the corner of his mouth, lifting my hand to show him the blood on it. He stares at it for a moment. "Oh," he says softly. He gives a ragged cough and more flicks of blood are spit out. He apologizes, "Sorry."

"It's all right," I say. He tries to nod, but fails, weak from his fit. I extract myself and lay him down on the blankets. "I'm gonna check your ribs," I announce.

"No need," he says. "They're merely bruised. I'm sure the blood is from coughing so much."

"I'm checkin' anyway," I tell him. He glares at me, but the effect is ruined; he's so tired he can barely keep his eyes open. I press my fingers into his sides at the top, experimentally; I saw this on a TV show once. When he makes no reaction, I start to move down. Somewhere in the middle of his chest, I hit what I assume is a tender spot as he kicks out and nearly succeeds in preventing me from having children. Ever.

"Ow, dammit," Malcolm says inarticulately.

"I could say the same thing," I quip, crossing my legs a little.

"Was that for me being cold with you?" he asks, a hint of recrimination in his voice.

"Maybe," I reply cryptically. I push again. He curses again and I'm really beginning to get the fact that he was nearly a sailor.

"Yew kiss yer mama with that mouth?" I ask, joking.

"Who do you think taught me?"

I really don't think he's joking about that, but I laugh anyway. I push on his ribs some more.

"Would you cease and desist?" he asks, pained.

"Yew got some broken ribs," I inform him.

"Yew think?" he snaps. I hold up my hands, thinking that he's been getting very good at mimicking my accent, though he does exaggerate it a little bit.

"We should probably bind them," I tell him.

"You are not touching me," he says.

"Would yew rather me do it while yew sleep?" I ask. He glares. "Let me bind yer damn ribs and you can go back to sleep."

Malcolm thinks it over. "Fine," he relents.

"Thank yew," I say, getting up and grabbing the med kit. As I rap his chest up, he grunts and curses at me. I think it's partially because of the pain and the fact that he's still pissed off with me. Not like I blame him or anything.

I really was going to leave without saying good-bye.

I scrape two tallies into the wall of the pod. Malcolm's still sleeping, so he can't ask me what I'm doing. It's kind of odd, what I'm doing, but I think it's necessary: we've been stuck here for two days. Malcolm's bleeding internally, it's cold, communications are still out (as are the engines), and both of us are angry and hurt (some of us more so than others).

I look at Malcolm. He's breathing has gotten worse and I'm still worried, despite how we are feeling to each other currently. I rub a hand across my face; what am I going to do? I need to get the communications unit fixed but I don't have the supplies.

I could always brave the cold outdoors and look for help. There could be alien assistance out there, somewhere.

I hope.

Oh, God, it's colder than Malcolm's vocabulary!

I rub my hands together and kind of wish that I had grabbed more blankets to wrap around me. Currently, I have two wrapped around my arms, two on my chest, some on my legs, one around my head, and another I'm wearing like a cape.

I look ridiculous but at least I'm semi-warm.

I wish I had snow shoes, I think, picking my feet up high in what I'm sure is an attractive fashion. I keep plowing through, hoping that I can find someone to help us. I look up into the sky and then out into the white abyss. Maybe I should build a signal fire. I pause. Maybe I could build a fire inside the pod for warmth. It sounds crazy, but I think it could work.

Malcolm was still sleeping when I left so I wrote him a little note. He was sounding terrible too, so I really want to get this little outing done because the morbid part of me is telling me he's gonna die and I don't want it to be alone, not matter what we're going through.

I think about why I'm leaving. I really can't tell Malcolm; he'll think I'm crazy, though I'm sure he's probably run from things like this before.

It's just…sometimes you think you can really make something work out and then it just…doesn't.

And that hurts and makes you so angry at everyone that you can't help but need to…go. To go, and to do something else and to get as far away from the pain as you can.

I turn around in a circle, trying to ignore the pain inside me. I go back to the pod.

There is nothing out here for me anymore.

Malcolm's awake when I return.

"Why are you leaving?" he asks me.

"It's none of your business," I snap, pulling all of my blankets off of me and tossing them into the corner. I almost feel bad when he gets into a coughing fit and he starts to cough up blood. But it isn't his business.

"You're leaving because of T'Pol, aren't you?" he asks after the attack. There's a trickle of blood running down his chin so I busy myself by cleaning that off so I don't have to answer. But he catches my eyes and says, "What did she do to you? To make you like this?"

"Malcolm," I growl. "Shut up."

"You are so much better than her," he says. "How could you fall for someone like that? Who would make you feel this way?"

"Shut up," I say.

"Who would break your heart," he countinues, "and make you so sad that you just want to—"

"Shut up." Louder.

"—die and die and die," he says, plowing right through. "Who crushes you, over and over again—"

"Shut up!" Louder still.

"—and all you want to do is convince them that you love them and that your good enough for them but they will never, ever listen to what you're saying—"

"Shut up!" I'm screaming now, shaking his shoulders. It takes me a moment to realize I'm shaking him so hard that he's coughing and crying from pain and blood is just going everywhere.

"Oh, Malcolm," I say. He's sobbing, from the pain and everything else, and he can't breathe. I take him into my arms and just hold him, rubbing his back. "I'm sorry. So sorry."

It takes me a few seconds to realize that I'm crying too.

I have this dream.

He and I are lying on an ice covered pond and it's night out. We're watching the stars. And it's nice, it feels nice, just him and me there. It's quiet and peaceful and we never move, just lie in silence, and we don't hurt and then—

I just start screaming, because I felt Malcolm die beside me and I don't move, I never move, and I scream and I scream and I scream and I scream and scream and scream and scream and...

I wake up cold.

We don't apologize for last night when we wake.

I go back to work on the communications system and Malcolm lies on the ground in pain, trying to get me to let him help me. He's doing the big blue eyes thing that always works on the Cap'n but I won't let him win.

"Yer bleeding internally," I say, countering his last attempt.

He huffs and mutters something under his breath.

"What was that?" I ask.

"Nothing," he says petulantly.

I shake my head and sigh. He can be such a little baby sometimes. I go back to attacking the comm. unit. He goes back to huffing and coughing and sounding utterly miserable.

I don't tell him about the dream.

A scratch a fourth mark into the pod. Malcolm's staring at me like I'm a little crazy. I could be. I could be going stir crazy in here, with him and his blue, reproving eyes. Haven't I said I was sorry about the whole 'not going to say good-bye' thing?

Okay, maybe not as such, but it could be understood through my actions.

I hit the communication unit in frustration. Look, you wouldn't want to be stuck in this small space with a paranoid, pessimistic, pissy Brit, would you? I think not, thank you.

"Maybe you should take a break," suggests Malcolm. I glare at him.

"I think I'll keep working," I snap back. Malcolm shrugs and coughs. He rolls over and tries to get comfortable. I watch him for a moment, as he shuffles and coughs and wretches a little. There's a small pool of blood on the floor where he's been coughing. I turn back to the console and hit it once more. If we don't get rescued soon, there might not be people here to rescue.

Bang. My wrench hits again. What would I do if Malcolm died before they got here? I'd blame myself, of course.

Bang, bang. I'd blame everyone else, too. I don't think I'd be able to deal with his blood on my hands. I look down at them. Too bad it's already there.

I may have broken the console and the wrench at this point.

Day five and Malcolm's condition worsens, I write in my mental log. And I have officially broken the communications console. I could repair it, but, truthfully, I'd just break it out of frustration again.

Boy, when Malcolm woke up and saw that mess—he gave me a tongue lashing that Mama's never held a candle to. You'd think he was the superior officer around here the way he lit into me. So, sometimes I do act a little younger than him, a little less mature. Whatever. At least I have a good time.

I look over to Malcolm. He's sleeping on top of the blankets again. He tosses and turns a lot, unable to get comfortable because his ribs hurt so badly. There's only so much I can do for him, you know? I can bind his rib and give him pain meds, but I can't fix the root of the problem.

That seems to be happening a lot these days, doesn't it?

I walk over to my sleeping friend and pull a blanket over him. He mumbles and coughs, blood snaking out from the corners of his mouth. I clean it away with my shirt sleeve and tuck him in better. He reminds me of my little brothers sometimes, especially when he sleeps. He looses all that crazy 'kill 'em all' attitude and the lines on his face seem less.

It's times like these that I have to remind myself that he's only five years younger then me.

Then I wonder what made him grow up so fast.

I really don't think I want to know the answer to that.

Day six and nothing else to do but sit around and watch Malcolm die.

Morbid, huh?

"Truth or—or dare?"

About that…. We got desperate. It was either play that or have Malcolm start reciting The Iliad—swear to God, I'm not joking here people, he really does have the entire thing memorized. It's past the point of even being funny now. Anyway, since the poor guy could barely talk as it is without having a fit, I figured truth or dare was safe. I mean, it's not like anything really embarrassing could happen: it's just me and him and the worst thing we've done so far was me running around naked outside for a full minute.

"Um, truth," I say. Malcolm thinks for a moment.

"Have you ever done anything you've ever really regretted?" He's surprisingly steady when he says it, and I really hope he's getting better.

I really don't wanna have to hold conversations with a dead guy.

"Sure," I reply to his question. "I've done lots of things I've regretted. In and among them was the time I took apart Mama's kitchen table. During Christmas."

Malcolm laughs raggedly.

"Truth or dare?" I ask him.

"Truth," replies Malcolm.

"Same question," I say.

"Yes," he says after a moment's hesitation. "I've done some things that I'm not proud of. Especially one, before Enterprise."

He doesn't say anything more on the subject. I don't know whether or not that's a good thing.

We go through a couple more rounds of truth or dare before Malcolm starts to nod off. I help him lie back down. He falls asleep almost instantly. I sit back into the chair that's before the broken communications console. I watch him sleep. His breathing is labored and he still tosses and turns. Is it terrible of me to wish that he dies in his sleep tonight? Because I don't think I can handle watching him in pain like this.

I'm going to miss him, when he's gone.

Or will that be when I'm gone?

Day seven.

I had the dream again last night. I woke up, thinking that Malcolm had actually gone. He was still alive, barely. I wished he was dead, just a little, when I saw him trying so hard to breath.

There are times when I hate myself.

"I wish you would have said something to me," Malcolm says, twisting a little, trying to get comfortable on his pile of blankets.

"And have yew talk me out of leavin'?" I reply.

He shrugs and winces.

"I'm bad at good-byes too," he says after a moment of silence passes between us. "I just thought, maybe, because—all we've been through—the stones maybe…" He trails off, a little lamely. He adds, stronger this time, "But you're leaving."

"It's not yew," I say eventually, after a long pause.

"I know," he says.

"I'm angry at her." I look out the window, so he can't see me start crying.

"I know," he says again.

"She used me."

Malcolm doesn't say anything to that.

He doesn't need to.

I wake up slowly, confused. Something's tapping on the side of the pod. My vision's blurry, my head hurts a little, I'm hungry, and I'm pretty sure the hair back of my head is sticking up in a delightful manner. However, Malcolm—even with several broken ribs, internal bleeding, and God knows what else—looks wide awake and alert, as usual.

Malcolm made Phlox get all pensive.

"What is that?" I ask, trying to get up. I stumble a little but manage to right myself eventually. Malcolm's staring at the spot where the tapping is. He coughs.

"I'm not sure," he admits slowly. He's begun to speak slowly because then the fact that he can barely talk isn't that noticeable. He coughs again and shifts a little. He winces. I wince too and go down onto the ground next to him.

"Is there a phase pistol in here?" I ask.

Malcolm raises an eyebrow, as if to say, Please. What do you take me for? A fool? He gestures to the left. I walk over and, in a small hiding place, there lies a phase pistol. I set it on stun. I get a look from Malcolm for that one. Please, Malcolm. Do you think I'm going to shoot what could be our only chance at rescue? You've got another thing coming if you do, buddy-o-mine.

I go cautiously to the hatch. Malcolm's eyes follow me. I gesture for him to hide. He coughs weakly and stays where he is. Right. He can't move very well. Delightful. Holding my pistol up and at ready, I open the hatch.

And damn near cry for joy. There, in all his glory, is Captain Jonathan Archer. With two MACOs behind him, but I ignore them.

"Cap'n!" I cry out, tossing the pistol to the side and throwing my arms around his neck.

"Whoa, there, Trip," he says, patting my back. He pushes me away and tries to get into the pod, but I won't let him. I start explaining at Warp speed.

"The pod crashed an' Malcolm an' I were stranded. Communications and engines were down. I tried fixin' 'em, but I couldn't." I pause, take a breath and get goin' again. "Malcolm's hurt real bad, Cap'n, we need to get back to the ship. He's coughin' up blood and don't look too good."

The Cap'n practically plows me over in his rush to get in. I turn and he's leaning over Malcolm, fussing. Malcolm is putting up a very good show of trying to fight Captain Mother Hen off, but I can tell he's freakin' exhausted.

"Trip," says the Cap. I go over to him. "Help me lift him."

Between us, we manage to heft a panting and in pain Malcolm. The MACOs lead the way for us to the other pod. Inside, the Cap'n and I lay him down. I sit on the ground with him and the Cap'n starts the pod up.

"At least—the captain—had enough sense—not to—come—alone," gasps Malcolm. The trip from the pods wore him out a bit.

The Cap'n grins grimly from the pilot's seat. "Up for any barrel rolls, Lieutenant?" he asks.

"No, thank you, sir," replies the Brit weakly. "I've had my fill of those."

"Fair enough," he says. "Maybe next time."

"Not if I can help it," mutters Malcolm, only loud enough for me to hear him. I smirk. The Cap'n does tend to get carried away when he pilots. He likes loop-the-loops just as much as the barrel rolls.

"We'll be there soon," I assure him after a moment of silence. "And then Phlox will have yew all patched up."

He scoffs and then we're quiet for a long while.

Malcolm's close to passing out, but then we're close to the ship; Cap'n's really been puttin' the pedal to the metal. Malcolm grabs my arm as tightly as he can—which really isn't all that hard, he's like a newborn kitten—and tries to speak.

"Hey, hey," I whisper into his ear. My cheek his pressing against head and my breath moves his hair. "Don't speak."

"I would," he says, stumbling over the words. "I would have—have used the sto-ones—for you." He gasps over the word 'stone', breaking it into two syllables. His eyes flutter while I try to work out a response to his heartfelt comment, my mouth gaping like I'm a beached fish or whatever. Malcolm passes out.

"Goody-bye," I say into his ear, softly, as we dock.

That's all there is to say, really: Good-bye.

I'm there when he wakes up in sickbay.

"Yer lung was deflated," I tell him. "The doc pumped that sucker back up." What I don't tell him is what Phlox told me: "He most definitely would have died several hours later had the captain not found the two of you. I don't even know how he managed to hang on as long as he did." Phlox proceeded to get a meditative look on his face that I normally associated with him thinking about Malcolm, the Medical Marvel.

Malcolm tries to talk but he can't.

I touch the tube on his throat. "He had to do it the old fashioned way," I say. "Yer not gonna be able to talk for a couple of days."

He takes my arm and taps on it, in Morse code. "When are you leaving?"

I gulp a little.

He stares at me with those blue eyes of his.

"Tomorrow," I admit.

Malcolm nods and turns away from me.

I stand, saying, "I'll see yew 'round."

He shrugs, moving his sheets a little. The sheet falls and I can see the bandages around his chest. I nod and leave, but not before stopping in the doorway. I watch his fingers play with the sheet, but he doesn't look over, even though I know he knows I'm here. I leave.

I know when I'm not wanted.

I'm in the mess hall of the Columbia, taking a break from working. We disembark soon for our mission and it's odd to me, being here. I half expect to see Malcolm walking through the doors to talk to me.

There's a pain in my chest, remembering how we left our friendship. We left it in the shuttle pod, broken and tattered on the floor. I wish I could have said something to him in sickbay, other than "see yew 'round". I wish I could have told him how much he meant to me; I wish I could have asked him to join me.

I wish I knew if we could still be friends after what I've done.

"What is that?" I hear one of the crew ask. I look out the window.

There's a banner, just there, taped against the window of the dry dock's observation deck.

"Good-Bye," it reads in large letters.

Even though I'm smiling, there's this choked up feeling in my chest and my eyes are burning.

"Sorry," says smaller letters near the bottom. "I couldn't find any stones. They would have floated away, anyway."