Chapter Text
“Look out!”
The world tipped sideways, the harsh lights of the temple blurring. Something soft gave way beneath his weight as Reed fell, something that emitted the strangled squeal of a wounded pig. Only when a thick encrustation of jewels around the midriff pressed into his hip did the lieutenant’s overcrowded mind identify the elaborate padded costume of the High Priest of Calidi and the massive bulk of the bipedal whale beneath.
Voices swirled over him as he rolled sideways, screwing up his eyes against the flashing lights that erupted from a dozen different directions. Weapons? Commander Tucker with his bloody camera for the fiftieth time in the day? A satin shod foot landed mere millimetres from his face and he rolled again, clawing the marble floor against a rush of adrenaline-fuelled dizziness. “Captain, the guards!”
He heard himself. Nobody else seemed to. His vision was briefly blurred by the surge of heaving bodies, flailing limbs and those thrice-benighted bloody lights. Somebody leaned across them, blotting the harshest glare. He wanted to get up, perhaps if someone offered a hand...
“Oh, God.” The voice was familiar – reassuring despite the panic twisting its usually languid syllables. “Cap’n, gimme a hand here!”
Seasick. He’d never been seasick before. The Old Fart would never let him hear the end of it if he was seasick on dry land.
“Jesus.” That was better: Captain Archer steadying the ship as usual, but he sounded shocked, and when they tried to stand, he staggered. “Archer to Enterprise! We’ve got wounded down here – have Phlox standing by.”
Wounded? The High Priest? The universe wobbled again, and the thought was lost.
“Easy, Malcolm.” Something firm and springy – a good mattress, perhaps – gave beneath him. “Oh, God. Somebody gimme somethin’ – there’s so much blood.”
He couldn’t see any. When he tried to turn sideways, tunnel walls rushed in around him and he couldn’t see a thing.
Somebody retched.
Him.
“Oh.”
The small syllable emerged bloodily, staining his lips. That was odd. No pain.
Just a dull, disconnected feeling; a blurriness at the corners of his eyes. He blinked, and for an instant things cleared.
“Just breathe, Malcolm.” Warmth from the words fanned his brow. Trip Tucker’s honey-tanned face hung inverted over him, the level, well-moulded features weirdly scrunched. Strong arms were lifting him – supporting him, Reed noticed dreamily, against that deep, solid Southern chest. “Stay with me, Lieutenant, you hear? I’m givin’ you an order. Stay with me.”
Fear. Trip didn’t show it often. “Fisher, there’s a pressure pad in the med kit. C’mon, warp five, dammit!”
He tried to object – snarling at subordinates wasn’t proper – but the words wouldn’t come. Something was bubbling, hot tar in his chest. He needed to cough.
Thick, coppery fluid coated his teeth. “Sssshhhh, it’s alright, I’ve got you, we’re goin’ home.”
Home. A nice word. Safe.
The shuttle swayed, caught by the storms of the upper ionosphere. The strength that cradled him stiffened to absorb the blow but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t feel a thing.
No pain. He kept remembering he should be surprised by that. Just that sickly gurgling sensation uncomfortably low in his chest. Drowning.
He was dimly aware that should frighten him.
Fuzzy shapes hovered, but as his peripheral vision began to fade Reed decided against trying to identify them. Home. They were taking him home to die.
Trip had him.
Something hot and damp skittered over his face and he forced his heavy eyelids to lift. His protector was leaning over – shielding him from all that nauseating motion, always so kind, dear, generous Trip – and despite the rolling banks of fog inside his skull, one thing was clear.
Trip Tucker was crying.
He couldn’t allow that – he wasn’t worth it. “Hrip,” he croaked, and by a miracle his hand did what he wanted, lifting awkwardly toward those gorgeous, hazy golden features. “’salright. I—“
His chest spasmed painfully. Somewhere, a long way away, somebody whimpered.
“Ssshhh, Malcolm, it’s okay, I’ve got you.” Perhaps it was his hearing, Reed decided dreamily. Trip’s voice at least was crystal clear. “You’ve gotta hold on, you hear me? Phlox is standin’ by, and…”
Dying didn’t seem so bad now. Trip was crying – which was bad, he knew he shouldn’t be glad about anyone being upset. But it meant Trip would miss him.
And that made it important that he understood. Clarity pierced the gathering gloom like a steel blade and, swallowing the strong metallic liquid that stung his tongue, Malcolm forced a few words out. “Glad – it’s you.”
“Don’t try to talk.” When Trip leaned nearer the terrible clarity of his narrowed focus swam, and momentarily he knew real fear. “Just breathe, Malcolm. Focus on me, you hear?”
He so wanted to obey – to make Trip happy he’d do anything – but the fog was rolling closer, his hold on consciousness failing. “Glad,” he mumbled again. “The last thing... so glad.”
The sound of a raw, inhuman scream of “Phlox!” accompanied him on the slide into nothingness.