Sickbay Series One--Shuttle Pod

By Leah

God, it was good to be warm.

There had been a few moments there, back in the shuttlepod—it felt like years ago now—when Malcolm was convinced that he would never be warm again. That he would die and spend an eternity freezing in some kind of airless purgatory, worse even than what the nuns had threatened him with in Sunday School. At least hell was meant to be warm.

The Sick Bay was almost quiet, save for the non-silence of constantly humming engines and machines. An ever-present background noise wherever you went on the ship. Malcolm had initially thought he wouldn't be able to stand it; that like Hoshi with her backwards stars the noise would seep into his consciousness like a poison and he would never be able to sleep. He had lain awake the first few nights on *Enterprise*, teeth and hands clenched against the pervasive drone. Nights had been so quiet where he had grown up, so far from the city. He had been so afraid he would never adjust, that his duties might suffer, that someone would notice his incompetence and his career would be over. They would send him home.

The shuttle had been so silent, after they had blown up the engine. Funny to think how much he missed the background noise when he thought *Enterprise* was gone.

*You're getting maudlin, Reed*. Silly waste of time, really, considering he and Tucker were safe and sound—and warm—again and they were going to be just fine. Maybe it was just that his mind was still a little sluggish, still recovering from hypothermia, dwelling on the negative. There was no reason to keep looking at Tucker every few minutes to make sure he was still breathing. He was fine. The *Enterprise* was fine.

So why did it still feel like part of him was frozen? He had a chunk of ice around his heart, too big for a slug of bourbon to melt. Probably too big for even the fires of hell. It hurt. Worse than the ache of cold did on the shuttlepod, when each breath ripped his lungs like death. He had thought this was the kind of pain you only felt with loss; it had hurt this much to see the shattered wreck of a star ship when he had been sure it was *Enterprise*. It had hurt this much when he realized that Tucker wasn't joking and was really going to climb into the airlock to die. But they had been rescued. Tucker was fine. He was *fine*.

Tucker slept in the bed beside him with the unconscious grace of a cat: a tiger, sleek and beautiful and strong. Tucker, who had red-blond hair like a tiger, who had so little fear he refused to even admit they were going to die. How would Tucker react if he knew Malcolm's cowardice had damn near killed them both? How would Tucker look at him then?

*Maudlin, Reed. You're getting maudlin. Best be careful*.

He was always so careful. Always so staid, and proper, and distant and respectful and careful that he had fucked half of Starfleet and never once had anything approaching a relationship. He had bragged—*bragged*!—To Tucker about Ruby, as if having sex with a willing woman was somehow an accomplishment. Did Tucker think he had hidden the pain in his eyes, listening to his asinine boasting? Tucker had thought he had loved her, Ruby. Maybe he did. Love. What a concept. As foreign to him as the Vulcan home world. As foreign as the man sleeping beside him. Was this the pain he was feeling, that hurt like ice in his heart?

Malcolm had dreamed about T'Pol, when he had still thought they were dying. The dream had disgusted and saddened him, and he had been so grateful when Tucker hadn't pressed him for an explanation. T'Pol was beautiful, as perfect and as untouchable as a god. And she reminded him of his father, with her aloofness and distant calm. That quiet air of superiority. How like him to dream that he had heroically saved Tucker's life. That he, of the entire crew of *Enterprise*, would be the one person to make the inscrutable Vulcan smile. Hadn't his father always told him that the smallest people had the grandest dreams?

And that was he, Malcolm, to a 'T'. *T for Tucker. Hah*. Too afraid to tell Tucker what he was feeling, even in the face of death. Too afraid to even share a blanket with him. He had been willing to place his career on the line to prevent Tucker from sacrificing himself, but he had been too afraid to share a blanket, to share the warmth of their bodies. To have Tucker in his arms. In the end even his military training couldn't overcome his terror of intimacy with the man, even the sterile intimacy of survival. And Tucker had almost died because of it, because of him. Malcolm hadn't drunk even a quarter as much of the bourbon—he hadn't lost nearly as much heat through his skin. He'd had no idea how close Tucker really was to freezing to death.

And that pain was the worst of all, how close he had come to losing him. Because he hadn't wanted to risk Tucker even guessing how he felt. Because even in such dire circumstances he had been afraid of his own desire.

Because, if Tucker ever found out that the Armory Officer was infatuated with him, how would he look at him then? Pity? Amusement? He didn't want to know. He couldn't bear to know.

*I should have gone into the airlock first. It would have been easier than this*.

Next to him, Tucker slept. Easily, like a cat or a tiger. Like a creature without fear or regrets or guilt or pathetically heroic dreams. Safe and sound and warm, no thanks to Malcolm. No thanks to Malcolm at all.

"Trip," he had said, speaking to the dark, "may I call you Trip?"

But he never would. He knew he never would.

END