Warning: angst ahead.

RoaringMice was my beta reader. Grateful thanks, your suggestions made this story much better.

Trip had always known it would come to this. He had not wanted to acknowledge it on a conscious level, but deep in his heart, he had known.

He had convinced himself – his conscious self – that Malcolm was virtually invincible. After all, the man had a way of coming out of the direst situations almost unscathed. And when he didn't, Phlox was invariably there to patch him up. Phlox was another member of the crew Trip had come to think of as omnipotent.

But this time they had both failed him.

Trip stopped a few metres away from the sickbay doors, unable to take another step. He felt positively ill, a subtle malaise that made him weak and slightly nauseous. He knew he had to go inside, because he would not keep away; he would not let his friend be alone tonight, of all nights. Yet there was nothing he feared more right now than take the last few steps, trigger the damn doors open, and finally see him. When he did that, there would be no going back.

There is no going back, he repeated to himself for the umpteenth time, passing a hand over his face. Whether you see him or not, whether you act like a man or hide away like a coward, Malcolm is dead. Dead.

A lump formed in his throat. He tried to swallow it but it was kind of big. It served, at least, to clamp down on the sob that was bubbling up at the base of his windpipe, begging to be let out.

In the end, the sickbay doors opened without him even having to move. And as Captain Archer trudged out Trip couldn't help but to catch a glimpse of the lifeless form lying on the closest biobed. His heart rate instantly shot up, making his breathing ragged. There. Now it was definitely over.

Archer's complexion was somewhat grey, and the pain in the green gaze, when their eyes met, was raw. Jon and Malcolm had never gone, never been able to step past the barrier of formality - Malcolm's fault, really: he and his 'no fraternising with superior officers' rule. And Trip knew Archer had regretted that; envied the fact that Trip had succeeded in bringing the man's shields down. But, in a different way and on a different level, the Captain had developed almost as strong a relationship with Malcolm as Trip had. One based on things like loyalty and respect, rather than camaraderie. One where things were not said but understood all the same. Malcolm had been good at that.

"You ok?" Archer croaked out, grabbing his arm almost as if to support himself.

Trip blinked. "No, I'm not," he muttered past the lump in his throat. "I'm just… tryin' to find the courage to go to him."

"Yeah." Archer squeezed his arm. "But it's something you need to do," he said quietly. "It's…" He faltered and looked away before continuing, barely above a whisper, "You'll regret it if you don't."

Trip nodded tautly, and Archer heaved a deep breath, standing straight and tall as if determined to shoulder both their pain.

"If you need to talk, you know where to find me," he said softly. With another squeeze he released Trip's arm and walked on.

Trip half-turned to watch him disappear around the bend in the corridor, then heaved a steadying breath himself, and stumbled on.

Sickbay was quiet. Even Phlox's creatures seemed to be mourning, for there were no squeals, no rustling movements.

Heart clenched, Trip forced his eyes to shift from the far wall to Malcolm's face.

Why the hell do they say that a person looks peaceful in death? There was suffering on Malcolm's face, in the familiar lines at the sides of his mouth, on his brow. Trip's lump got even bigger, and he had to avert his eyes. They fell on Malcolm's right arm - the only part of his body, with his shoulders, that was visible. It lay over the sheet that, blessedly, covered his wounds, and an IV still snaked out of it, though no longer feeding its now useless drugs into his vein. A stab of pain tore into Trip, and he grimaced.

"I haven't had time yet to…tidy him up," a well-known voice said behind him.

Trip almost started. Phlox sometimes had a way of appearing unannounced that gave you heart attacks.

"I'm so sorry, Commander," the Doctor added sorrowfully, as he proceeded with touching gentleness to remove the needle from Malcolm's arm. "It all happened so fast…" He shook his head. "He didn't even make it into surgery; there was nothing I could do." Emotion coated his usually upbeat voice.

Nodding silently, Trip shot the Denobulan an understanding look and cleared his throat. "I'd like to spend some time alone with him, if it's ok," he choked out.

"Of course," Phlox replied softly. "I'll be around," he added a little worriedly, and Trip realised he must be looking like hell.

With a final glance, Phlox drew the privacy curtain around Malcolm's bed. As silently as he had come, he then left.

So here they were now, once again the two of them. They had laughed together and got mad at each other, shared confidences and silences. So why was he feeling so damn uncomfortable this last time alone with Malcolm?

Suddenly, looking down at him, Trip knew. He had come here determined to spend the night by his friend because he couldn't suffer the idea of him being alone, in the sterile semi-darkness of sickbay; or worse, in a body bag, like a discarded something that had no more use. But now he was beginning to realise that this was perhaps just what the body in front of him was: unusable waste.

That wasn't Malcolm, lying on the biobed. Standing by him now wasn't at all like the many times he had come to visit him in sickbay, the many times he had sat by his bed waiting for him to regain consciousness after he'd gotten himself injured: this… this immobile form felt like nothing more than an empty container, was as inert as a wax sculpture.

Taking a tentative step closer, Trip forced himself to reach out and put a hand on Malcolm's arm, and his heart missed a beat. It still felt warm to the touch. Well, Malcolm had only just… it really wasn't all that long since…

Oh, God…

Suddenly he still felt a connection to the man to whom that abandoned limb had belonged. This wasn't an empty shell quite yet. Emotion came crashing over him like an avalanche, unstoppable and shattering. And the sob finally escaped, dry as it was, for no tears would come.

"You damn fool," he croaked out brokenly, his eyes staring at Malcolm's still chest. "You and your damned hero complex, always throwin' yourself into the line of fire, expectin' to keep all of our eighty-two arses safe, insistin' that your duty…"

He bit his tongue, the rest of his angry outburst dying away in his throat. Malcolm had made the ultimate sacrifice to save them because he had cared. Not just to fulfil his duty. He owed his friend gratefulness, not resentment.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. His legs almost gave out, and he dropped to sit on the chair Phlox had thoughtfully placed beside the biobed, probably anticipating that it would be needed. He didn't release Malcolm's arm though, not wanting to break the link the touch made him feel he still had with him.

Trip's eyes tracked of their own will back to Malcolm's face. It was disturbingly lifeless, but he sort of felt compelled to look at it, while he still could.

The first time he had set eyes on it, its sharp features had… Strange how first impressions can be misleading: those features had not seemed, as he had later come to realise, the signs of a strong, perhaps even complex character but indications of conceit. Trip had thought, in a sarcastic way, that they went rather well with the man's clipped accent and rigid personality. He had gone to Jon and asked him if it wasn't enough they had a Vulcan on board, how they were supposed to survive living in close quarters with a Vulcan and Mister Perfectionist. He had thought Malcolm was a stuck-up S.O.B. and had decided to give him a wide berth.

"I'm sorry," he muttered again, soulfully.

And indeed that other time, when Jon had asked him if he spent any time with Malcolm, he had replied, as if the question was a weird one, 'I was for a few hours in the armoury, swapping power relays'. What else was he supposed to do with the man?

But then the Captain had told him that Malcolm's parents hadn't even known what their son's duty on board Enterprise was, and the 'mystery Malcolm Reed' had begun to intrigue him.

Soon after, they had had to work together against time to build the phase cannons. And that's when he had learnt a bit more about the man. Trip's lips curved into a faint smile. How stubborn he could be, but dedicated to his job and the crew. He let his eyes track again to the lines around Malcolm's mouth, those lines he had wondered so many times - and never fully understood - how they had come to be on his young face.

And after working their butts off, shoulder to shoulder, for those few days, Trip had come to realise that, if he could forget the man's annoying, overly proper attitude, he might even enjoy sharing a few beers with him. He snorted softly. He had ended up sharing more than he could count.

"Dammit, Malcolm. Who am I gonna get pissed with now?"

Yeah, 'cause it had actually been by getting drunk together that the spark of friendship had finally been lit between them - that and being at death's door. That had bonded them for good.

"That time in the Shuttlepod I wanted to club you," Trip muttered, not caring how oblivious Malcolm looked: touching his arm, somehow, made him feel that his friend could hear him.

"Hell, you were such a pain. Makin' me face reality, not allowin' me to hide behind the illusion we'd be fine."

God, had he been furious! Spending the last hours of his life with… But then, quite unexpectedly, Malcolm had bared his soul to him, showed him another person, the sensitive, even vulnerable man that came out when the stoic Lieutenant Reed stepped back. And an instant connection had been established. In the end he – Trip – had been the vulnerable one; and Malcolm had revealed just what a true friend he could be.

"I got ya furious too, that time, didn't I?" Trip breathed out, remembering the fire in Malcolm's eyes - those blue-grey eyes that he'd never see open again - as he had threatened to shoot Trip unconscious to make him come to his senses and face their fate together.

"I don't think I ever thanked ya for pullin' me down from that airlock."

But he knew he hadn't needed to. That's the way it had been between them. That's the way Malcolm had been: silently there for him even after Lizzie's death and Trip's bitter outburst. In the Expanse, when Jon had turned almost into a stranger, Malcolm had been his anchor, his safety line. Old sorrows merged with fresh, drowning Trip in misery.

"Dammit, Malcolm, I thought I could count on you," Trip croaked out in anguish. "Why did you fail me?"

Trip turned on his side, pulling in frustration at the sheet that threatened to trap him.

His heart was hammering away almost painfully in his chest, and he tried to slow down his breathing, feeling with each greedy intake of air his drenched T-shirt pull against his skin.

His quarters. He was in his quarters. In his bed.

With a groan, he buried his face in his hands. Damn, no more double shifts, no matter what, he thought groggily.

The feeling of oppression that had gripped him in sleep still lingered. Where did it come from? Suddenly a series of images flashed through his mind, and his breathing got ragged again. Malcolm was dead… that damned away mission where he'd watched Malcolm get mortally wounded… and then he had sat by his lifeless body in sickbay…

But…

Had he? Had it been recollection or dream? He tried to concentrate, desperate to know, but his mind was too confused, too influenced by the harrowing sensations that wouldn't leave him.

He had to make sure.

Shoving the covers off, Trip pushed drowsily to his feet and, without stopping to put on a uniform or shoes, let himself out.

The artificial night gave the deserted corridor an eerie appearance. Or perhaps it was his nightmarish state of mind that made it so. Trip stumbled along it and came to an abrupt halt in front of Malcolm's quarters, not sure he wanted to go in.

Disregarding a faraway voice in his head that suggested Malcolm's death had been too vivid, too realistic to be a dream, Trip ran a hand through his damp hair; then, he reached out and entered his by-pass code. Finally, struggling with his feelings, he placed his thumb on the sensor pad and triggered the door open.

The room was in darkness, which became all-encompassing after the door had swished closed again behind him. Trip could hear his own loud breathing, still ragged as his lungs tried to keep up with his heart's pounding.

A thought peeked through the fog of his brain: hell, he had entered another person's quarters like a thief, something he had no right to do. But it vanished as fast as it had formed.

Tentatively, he took a few blind steps in the direction of Malcolm's bunk. His leg bumped against it. Cursing the darkness, he bent down.

He might have expected it, had he been fully conscious of what he was doing; but the attack caught him totally by surprise: before he knew it, he had been slammed with his back to the floor, the wind blown out of his lungs; a weight pressed on his stomach, and his arms were pinned down hard above his head.

"Malcolm?" he managed to choke out.

His answer was a muttered curse of unmistakable British make. The pressure on his wrists lifted, and a well-known voice ordered the lights on. Trip blinked away the last of his drowsiness and was finally wide awake.

Malcolm was sitting astride his midsection, staring down at him in bewilderment.

Whether it was their position, the look on Malcolm's face, or the sudden relief at knowing his friend's death had been a dream, Trip couldn't tell. But suddenly he guffawed into a laugh, which quickly turned into a hitched gasping, ending in a pathetic sob.

Malcolm's eyes, during all that, roamed over his obviously dishevelled appearance, while his face subtly reshaped from surprise to astonishment, to worry. "Trip, what's wrong?" he finally asked, in concern.

The burden that immobilised him finally eased: Malcolm slowly got off his stomach and knelt down beside him, sitting on his heels, his gaze still trying to find answers on Trip's face and body.

Bringing a hand to his eyes, Trip pressed down on them. He didn't trust himself to speak before he had regained control over his emotions. Plus he had banged his head pretty hard on the floor. He needed a moment to regroup.

"Are you all right?" Malcolm's voice had a definite edge to it now. "I'm paging Phlox," he suddenly said under his breath, getting abruptly to his feet.

"No," Trip managed to croak out. He pushed up to lean on his elbows. "No, I'm ok. I…" He faltered, not knowing how or where to begin. Biting his lip, he sat up; then offered his friend a reassuring, if faint, smile.

Malcolm stared at him and Trip saw him assess him once again.

"What in the bloody hell made you sneak up on me in the dead of night?" Malcolm finally asked, a hint of anger entering his voice, now that he seemed somewhat reassured about Trip's condition – mental and otherwise. "I could have hurt you, dammit."

"You're alive," Trip blurted out, because that was the only thing his mind could think at present. He rubbed the sore spot in the back of his head, where he had banged it on the floor.

Blinking, Malcolm averted his grey eyes briefly, before returning them, with a frown, to Trip's. He crossed his arms over his chest. "What do you mean? Of course I'm alive," he said in his clipped tones, sounding once again quite puzzled.

"You weren't. I mean…" An image flashed through Trip's mind, and he automatically flinched. "I saw you dead, Malcolm. I had this nightmare, but it was so real that I couldn't tell if you had really died or not." His voice was thick. He couldn't help it; the experience had been so deeply upsetting that he still felt displaced.

Malcolm's brow furrowed some more. After a moment he held out his hand, and Trip let himself be hauled to his feet. "I'm security. It might happen one day," Malcolm said quietly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Trip felt a wave of anger surge at warp speed and choke him. What! He still had his guts in knots, and here was Malcolm, dismissing his 'death' as an ordinary possibility, like saying 'one day or other I might burn my fingers on a polarised relay: so what'?

He grabbed the front of Malcolm's T-shirt and growled inches from his face, "We're talkin' about your life, Malcolm, the most precious thing you've got, somethin' that is irreplaceable… I saw you lyin' on a damn biobed, mute and unfeelin', pain still painted on your face, a useless IV line still snakin' out of your arm…" Midway his outburst his voice tensed with more than anger, until it finally cracked. Clenching his jaw, he released his grip and looked away, annoyed with himself for his lack of control.

Silence slammed down between them like an emergency bulkhead.

After a moment Trip ventured a glance.

Malcolm looked as if he was trying to figure out what was wrong with him. "Trip, I'm alive," he said tentatively, as if afraid to hurt him or provoke another explosion. Suddenly something dawned in his eyes and he narrowed them, adding almost to himself, "Would you really be so affected by… I mean, you're my friend, I know, but… no one ever… I doubt even…" He paused. "…And death is part of the deal," he concluded quietly as his eyebrows shot up.

Trying to make sense of the fragmented thoughts Malcolm had struggled to express, Trip stumbled past him to sit on the desk chair. He shot Malcolm a look, but the man had remained turned the other way, absorbed in thought.

"If I died, wouldn't you be affected?" Trip asked him darkly.

Malcolm swivelled on the spot to look at him. "Yes, of course I would, but…"

"But what?" Trip said tautly, without letting him finish. "Oh, yeah, I know: you'd feel appropriately guilty because it would mean you'd have failed to protect me," he barked out. "The perfect Lieutenant Reed would kick himself for not fulfillin' his cursed duty. Is that all you'd feel? Guilt? Damn, is that what our friendship is worth to ya?"

Malcolm stared at him, stock still. He opened his mouth to speak, only to close it again, and Trip watched hurt flit over his features. "What gives you the right to judge me?" he finally said, in bitter tones.

Trip's heart clenched. "Shit, I'm sorry, Malcolm," he stammered, scrunching up his face and hiding behind a hand, "I…"

"If you died," Malcolm overrode him, and his voice had dropped dangerously low, "I would be affected, and not just because of my duty to protect you. I would… mourn a grave loss, the loss of a friend," he said to the floor.

"Look…"

"Please, let me finish," Malcolm interrupted again, looking up now and pinning him with cold grey eyes.

Trip bit his lip and waited. He really had messed this up.

It took Malcolm a long moment to continue, but his eyes gradually softened, and when he did find his voice, much to Trip's relief it had lost its icy edge and sounded, rather, surprised.

"What I was going to say," Malcolm said, "Is that I never realised anyone would feel so upset by my death. After all it's a definite possibility."

It was Trip's turn to stare back in bewilderment. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he almost shouted.

Malcolm averted his gaze, but not before Trip had seen the confusion in it. A moment later Malcolm walked to his bed and sat down slowly on it. "All I'm saying, I suppose, is that I never thought my life was that important to anyone," he explained hesitantly. "Or rather… I know it's important because of what I do; but I never thought it would be important because of who I am."

This was ridiculous. Correction – it was sad. Trip looked at Malcolm speechlessly.

"But now that you make me think of it I should have realised that because of our friendship, I, as a person, am important to you," Malcolm added, with a small smile that lit his features and quickly disappeared. "And I had hoped you knew that I do value our friendship," he concluded uneasily.

Trip gave a dejected sigh. "Look, forget what I said before." He shot Malcolm a contrite glance. "I… wasn't myself. That damn nightmare was so upsettin'. I never really meant to say what I said. I'm sorry. "

A shiver ran through him - his wet T-shirt had become cold. He hugged his shoulders, and Malcolm silently handed him his bedspread, which Trip accepted with a grateful nod and wrapped around himself.

There was still something that bothered Trip, but he wondered if he should say anything. He was beginning to feel the tiredness that comes with the release of tension, and the subject was a touchy one. He knew, however, that it would remain in the back of his mind and bug him, if he kept it inside.

He studied his friend. Malcolm was leaning with his elbows on his knees, his head down. Trip could not read his expression, but his body language was fairly relaxed, so he made up his mind and went ahead.

"It almost sounds as if you don't mind that one day you might get killed, Malcolm," he ventured, carefully keeping his voice level. "I know you're security, but…"

"It's only the truth," Malcolm replied, glancing up. "And you know it. It's my job. It involves a certain amount of risk."

Trip frowned. "Aren't ya afraid of death?"

There was a silence.

"Not so much death, as… oblivion, nothingness."

"Then how…"

"I think of it every day," Malcolm said, finally meeting Trip's gaze long enough for him to read his eyes. They were deep and unguarded and there was a surprising serenity in them. "It's just… another type of training. I get myself used to the idea that every day might be my last one. As if there were no tomorrow." He shrugged. "It takes the sting out of death."

Trip was shocked. Personally, he tried to avoid thinking of death, and could not conceive that someone instead made it point of thinking of it every single day. He looked for something to say, but his mind drew a blank.

"Knowing that your loss won't hurt anyone badly makes the thought of death easier," Malcolm continued. He straightened up and gave Trip a lopsided smirk. "Except now, Mr. Tucker, you have made a royal mess of that for me." He sought Trip's gaze. "Because now that I know I would be missed…" Malcolm's eyebrows shot up, and he made a clicking sound with his tongue, leaving the rest of the thought unspoken.

Trip found his voice again. "Hell, Malcolm, you're my friend; of course I'd miss ya. And not only me: you should've seen the Capt'n - I mean in my dream. The man was devastated. And Phlox."

Malcolm tilted his head, looking intrigued, in fact, almost amused. "Just how long and structured was this dream of yours, Trip?" he wondered, his brow creasing.

"Don't ask. I don't want to go there anymore." Trip shuddered. "But I suggest you start thinkin' every day of how to keep yourself alive – ya know, for the people who care about you," Trip added meaningfully.

"But I do try to keep myself alive," Malcolm said with a snort, though he sounded dead serious. "I may think of death every day, but it doesn't mean I won't try my darnedest to avoid meeting the dark lady. I think I told you already, that time in the shuttlepod: I don't want to die."

Trip took a deep breath. "Ok, ok, I've got it."

"Excellent." Malcolm patted both his hands on his knees. "Now: do you think you could let me go back to sleep?" he enquired. "Live bodies do require a certain amount of rest to keep that way and function properly."

Trip rolled his eyes and groaned. Getting up from the chair he reluctantly slipped out of Malcolm's blanket and handed it back.

As they walked to the door, Malcolm said, "I can't believe you let yourself in here as you did." He shook his head. "Sneaking up on the Chief of Security: really, Trip, what in the bloody hell were you thinking? You could have ended up in sickbay."

"I was all mixed up," Trip replied, feeling kind of stupid now that he thought about it. "You know how it is when you're barely awake from a nightmare. I didn't know what, and… I had to make sure."

"Well, next time please ring the bell."

"If you'd been dead, you couldn't have answered," Trip said stubbornly.

"Then you would have known," Malcolm countered.

"Oh, for crying out loud, Malcolm! I didn't want to know. I mean, I did, but…"

"Did you, or didn't you? Make up your mind."

Trip shot Malcolm a frustrated glance, only to see his grey eyes twinkle with mirth. The next moment the damn man broke into a soft chuckle.

"You're an unfeeling S.O.B.," Trip told him deadpan.

Malcolm shook his head, still chuckling. "If you say so." Casting a meaningful look at Trip's state of undress, he raised eloquent eyebrows and said, "Let me check if anyone is outside." He opened the door and took a peek. "Coast is clear."

"See ya tomorrow," Trip muttered. As he was slipping out he felt a hand on his arm stopping him, and turned.

As suddenly as it had come, Malcolm's cheerfulness had gone. But Trip was used to such sudden changes of emotion. They were part of the man. Part of what made him such an intriguing person.

"Good night, Trip," Malcolm said quietly.

Yes, Malcolm had always been good at saying things without spelling them out. Like now.

Trip bit his lip. "Part of the reason my dream was so… upsetting," he said, falling into a sombre mood again, "Was this feeling that I had known it was going to happen; as if it was already written. I had known all along that one day I would walk into sickbay and find you…" Suddenly the lump in his throat was back.

Malcolm's eyes grew intense. "Trip, it's not written. It's only a possibility. But one you should not discount. It would make it easier for you, in case I did happen to get killed in the line of duty."

"As if there were no tomorrow?" Trip murmured grimly after a beat.

"Yes."

They looked at each other in silence; then Malcolm heaved a deep breath. "In the meantime, though, tomorrow is practically here." His mouth curved into a small smile. "And any moment someone might come down the corridor. So, would you mind clearing off?" He tilted his head. "I have a reputation to defend, Commander."

Trip looked into his friend's grey eyes. Those very much alive and currently mischievous grey eyes. "Alright. But you try and keep out of my dreams, Lieutenant."

"Sir. Yes, sir," Malcolm said, flashing him a mocking salute just as the door closed in front of him.

Trip turned away with a smile and leaned his back against his friend's door. Yup, Malcolm might change mood at the speed of light but this was the Malcolm he liked best: cocky and slyly humorous, even in the face of death.

"Commander."

Trip looked up in surprise to find T'Pol approaching from the other end of the corridor. She raised one delicate eyebrow as she moved.

"Evenin'," Trip said, turning on the charm.

"Good morning," T'Pol replied with a slight frown, as she strode past him.

Trip's mind barely registered the correction, busy as he was admiring the view. When it finally did, T'Pol had disappeared around the bend. He looked down in embarrassment at his own state of undress. Then he shrugged. So much for Malcolm's reputation.

He pushed away and strolled down the corridor, toward an early shower and, hopefully, much more pleasant thoughts.

THE END

Well, you didn't really think I'd kill off one Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, did you?

Please leave a review.