Chapter Text
There was once a time where being a true Demon was all Mallos really wanted to do. He liked to terrorize the mortals, liked the thrill it sent through his body – he would put his hands around a man’s neck and snap it, and the sound would be like music to his ears. He manipulated their minds and tipped them over the edge into insanity again and again and revelled in their screams.
It had disappointed his stuffy parents to no end. The Reed clan, alive for centuries now, had been on the mellow side, and his father especially had not been pleased at the direction Mallos had decided to take his life. He’d told him to leave and not come back until he “got his head on straight”. His mother had tried a different approach – she’d laid on the sympathy and sadness so thick she almost looked human. It disgusted Mallos. What level were they sinking to? There was far more to life than this! Why was he the only one who saw that?
His sister said it was due to the technological advancements of the mortals. It was getting harder and harder to hide their true form. Already, the family had had to move six times in just the last century.
Mallos didn’t understand why she was taking their side and he said as much. She’d been the exact same as he was now, after all. Just who was responsible for all those fires ten years ago? But Madeleine had only sighed and said it wasn’t that she was taking their side, just that she understood where they were coming from. And she didn’t want to be discovered and possibly sent back to Hell.
Mallos didn’t care. Let the mortals discover who he was – he would just kill them before they could take action anyway.
So he continued his rampage for two hundred more years. He did not speak to his most of family, only Madeleine, and that was a rare occurrence. He didn’t make any friends aside from the few fellow Demons who shared his desire for chaos. But they, too, began to grow weak and soft, and sometimes he ended up having to kill them.
Poor Vashista. He did really like her. As such, he couldn’t bring himself to kill her, but he did lock her in Hell for a few centuries. Hopefully she would learn her lesson.
Time went on and he had to admit, much to his chagrin, that his family had a point. It was getting far more difficult to conceal his true form. They developed cameras, and at first he wasn’t worried, they weren’t very good, but they got more and more advanced. Their law enforcement grew more competent. He’d had to evade them twice as much as before, and he discovered he was using his powers more often.
It wasn’t that he was ready to lay low and mellow out, he told himself. It was getting far too dangerous for him to be so open about his inhumanness. Besides, tormenting the same kinds of mortals over and over was getting boring, predictable. No longer did they burn people at the stake or crush them under mounds of stone. In fact, they’d done away with the death penalty altogether! Their infighting ceased after what they called the “third world war”, and life became dreary for Mallos.
The Vulcan first contact came and went, and while Mallos used the chaos that it brought and planted paranoid ideas of sabotage into the mortals’ heads, he found it didn’t quite hold the same thrill it once did. He felt restricted on this planet, the place he’d reluctantly called home for the past– dear lord, had it really been eight hundred years? He supposed the human saying of “time flies when you’re having fun” held true, and now time was moving excruciatingly slow for him.
Getting into the newly named “Starfleet” hadn’t been his first choice. It hadn’t even been on his mind at all. He was contacted by a mortal named Harris, and he was about to refuse when Harris revealed that he knew of Mallos’s true identity. Just as Mallos was getting ready to end the man, Harris told him in a surprisingly nonchalant tone – no mortal had ever spoken to him with that level of calm once finding out who he was – that he did not care about who Mallos was, only that he thought Mallos would find some use under Harris’ command.
Command? Mallos laughed at in the man’s face. He would not be under the command of some mere mortal. Still, the idea was intriguing, and Mallos found himself accepting on the compromise that he would be free to conduct his “missions” however he saw fit.
It was a thrill. It was exciting. He got to do things he hadn’t done in decades, and for once he didn’t even have to run every time.
Mallos couldn’t say what prompted him to apply for an armoury position on board the new earth ship Enterprise. Boredom, perhaps, because while working under Harris gave him many opportunities to get away with things mortals would find dastardly, he was never sent too far from home. Probably to keep him on a tight leash, Mallos guessed.
When his acceptance came through, Mallos went right to Harris and slapped it down along his resignation to Section 31. The man did not show surprise. Whether that was because he knew this would happen or if he just had a very good reign on his emotions, Mallos couldn’t tell. Even for him, Harris was difficult to read, almost as much as those damn Vulcans.
“For what it’s worth,” Harris said, “you were quite an asset. I’ll miss having you around.”
“I highly doubt you’re letting me go just like that,” Mallos said with the British accent he’d inflected over the years.
Harris leaned back in his chair and gave him an appraising look. “I’m not. But we both know you’re far powerful than me, and there isn’t much I can do to keep you here if this is really what you have your heart set on.”
He knew the turn of phrase had been on purpose, meant to aggravate him. “I don’t have a heart,” Mallos snapped anyway.
Harris looked at him for a bit longer, then picked up the acceptance letter. He raised an eyebrow. “‘Malcolm Reed’. A bit stuffy, don’t you think?”
Mallos bared his teeth but said nothing. He would not let this man push him further.
“Good luck in the future, then.” Harris got out of his chair and held out his hand. “Lieutenant Reed.”
Mallos walked out the door without shaking his hand.
With a new name came a new personality. Mallos had adopted many of them over the years to stay under the radar, but never one as different as this. Malcolm Reed was quiet and tense. He was obedient to a fault; he didn’t stand out.
For the most part, he thought he played the part rather well. The only time Mallos shone through was when he had the chance to play with the weapons. Far from his ability to mess about people’s heads and cause pain with a flick of a finger, but nonetheless still exciting.
His Captain was a mortal by the name of Jonathan Archer. The son of the creator of Earth’s first warp five engine, Mallos- Malcolm gathered. The man was far too cheery and naïve to be a captain of a starship, Malcolm thought with annoyance.
But if he thought Archer was bad, then Charles Tucker III was on another level. The name was the only thing distinguished about him. Trip, as he insisted everyone call him for whatever reason, was overbearing and pushy to the point where Malcolm had to bite his own arm to stop the urge from punching the man’s face in. He wanted to be friends with everyone – and he included Malcolm in that.
Their first officer was a Vulcan by the name of T’Pol. The first time she saw him, she did the Vulcan version of a double-take and raised one slanted eyebrow, and Malcolm knew that she suspected he was different from the others. However, she did not say anything.
Malcolm saw little of Hoshi Sato, the communications officer and linguist, but he’d heard about her, and to be honest, he did not understand what she was doing here in the first place. Apparently she was an anxious mess who thought being in space was some kind of hell (and Malcolm laughed at that, because none of these mortals knew what Hell was really like). He suspected she’d be begging to go back home within the first week.
The helmsman seemed nice enough. A young man who had spent most of his life in space, Travis didn’t pry into Malcolm’s personal life the way Archer or Tucker did. Instead, he told anecdotes of his own life, and Malcolm found himself smiling along.
His team wasn’t so bad, either. They did what he asked without question, they were efficient, competent, and did not seem to have that urge to chat most mortals did.
The only issue Malcolm ran into was Doctor Phlox. He supposed he was fortunate Phlox was alien, for most the discrepancies the doctor picked up could be explained away as human anomalies. The big one however, the one that tipped him off, was Malcolm’s rather noticeable lack of a functioning heart. When the scans revealed this, the doctor raised an eyebrow, and Malcolm realised he had no choice but to explain.
Well, not exactly.
“If you tell anyone,” Malcolm hissed, flashing his sharpened teeth, “I have no qualms about killing you.”
Doctor Phlox’s eyebrows went even higher, but Malcolm sensed no fear coming from him. Instead, the Denobulan tapped something into his PADD and gave Malcolm an unnervingly large smile. “Doctor-patient confidentiality forbids me from revealing any non-essential information,” he hold him cheerfully. “So long as you don’t put yourself or anyone else in danger, I see no reason to share your, er, secret.”
The anyone else was slightly emphasized, a clear threat despite Phlox’s grin and relaxed demeanor. Malcolm huffed and gave a short nod.
So Doctor Phlox was the first one to know – even if he didn’t gather the specifics – and the only one to know for a very long time.
Captain Archer was an overeager explorer, was the way Malcolm would describe it. He didn’t know why he was so eager to explore this Vulcan monastery in the first place, against T’Pol’s wishes. Not that Malcolm really cared for the Vulcans. Their lack of susceptibility to his powers caused him a great deal of annoyance a few years ago, and he’d never been one to let go of such a grudge.
And this monastery – there was something off about it. Malcolm felt no familiar prickle across his skin as he did when he encountered any other Holy place, no unexplainable irritation, though three senior officers being stupid enough to get their asses captured was annoying. And now he was left to clean up the mess.
They attempted to contact the Captain but an unfamiliar voice answered the comm. instead.
“Enterprise.”
Malcolm shot to his feet. He could hear it in the person’s voice. “Who is this?”
Perhaps the person could hear it in Malcolm’s voice, too, because he hesitated before answering. “This is Commander Shran. And who is this?”
“Lieutenant Reed. Where is the captain?” He would confirm his theory later, right now he had to get the senior officers back.
“Your Captain is a prisoner of the Andorian Imperial Guard. We know you’re in collaboration with the Vulcans.”
“We aren’t in collaboration with anyone-”
“Your ship is under constant surveillance. Arm your weapons, or make any attempt to approach the surface, and I will kill the hostages. You have been warned.” Then communication was cut abruptly.
Malcolm looked at Hoshi, looked out the viewscreen. He pondered on the wrongness of the monastery and the inflection in this Commander Shran’s voice.
And he formulated a plan.
And as it turned out, his suspicions were correct. This was no Vulcan holy place. It was a building full of lies and deceit – that was how Commander Shran had put it, spitting directly in the face of some Vulcan priest. Hiding beneath the claimed building of worship was an advanced technological spy station. The Vulcans, of course, tried to justify their actions, and Malcolm forced down the urge to string them all up by their necks.
As the Enterprise crew got ready to leave, none of them noticed Shran pull Lieutenant Reed aside. None of them saw the Andorian and the Human give each other a once over – none of them noticed the realisation each had that Shran was not an Andorian, nor was Malcolm a human.
None of them saw Malcolm flash a sharp-toothed smirk as his pupils narrowed into bright coloured slits, and none of them saw Shran return a similar expression.
For the most part, being on an enclosed ship surrounded by humans wasn’t so bad. He grew used to their antics and attitudes, even those of Commander Tucker, whom he’d begun working more closely with as their departments overlapped quite a bit. Tucker seemed to mistake necessity for friendship, however, and started inviting him to eat lunch, an ordeal which Malcolm suffered through. Human food was just so… bland. While he could eat it with little ill effects, it just wasn’t the same, and of course he couldn’t use any of the crew for that… purpose.
As Commander Tucker rambled on about the engine, or maybe it was the nacelles, Malcolm absentmindedly pushed chunks of a strange yellow fruit around his plate. It had been part of a chicken dish which he’d already wolfed down, but these yellow cubes intrigued them. They were tangy and stung the inside of his mouth. He loved that sensation. He stabbed three of them onto his fork and chewed.
Commander Tucker stopped talking and looked at him with a lopsided smile on his face. Malcolm glared back. “What?”
“You really like pineapple, huh?”
“Pineapple?” Malcolm stared down at the fruit. Was that what it was? “Huh. I do.”
Tucker reached out and stole one with his grimy oil-covered fingers, and Malcolm nearly stabbed his hand with the fork, but the Commander seemed to think it was a joke, because he threw his head back and laughed before continuing his incessant rambling.
A few minutes later, Malcolm was aware of an… uncomfortable feeling in his body. Like something invisible was strangling him from the inside. Unconsciously, he brought a hand to his throat. His skin was felt strange, sensitive. He opened his mouth and abruptly coughed.
This made Tucker stop talking and look at him with concern – damn, concern! He was fine! He didn’t know what was going on, but it was fine, he’d suffered worse.
“Malcolm? Hey, you okay?”
Malcolm tried to speak but all that came out was a horrible choking noise. He winced, more so from humiliation and irritation, but Tucker seemed to take that as a wince of pain because he got up so fast he overturned his chair and ran to Malcolm’s side. He hooked one hand under Malcolm’s armpit and dragged him to his feet. “Let’s go to sickbay. You don’t look great, an’ you don’t sound too great either.”
Malcolm tried to resist. He probably could have wriggled out of Commander Tucker’s grasp if he had full strength and free use of his abilities, but as it was the entire mess hall was staring at him, and he could not risk exposing himself.
When they got to sickbay, Phlox led him over to one of the bio-beds while Commander Tucker hovered near the door. Malcolm wanted to tell him to leave – in no polite terms – but even breathing was a struggle. What was happening? He felt like he’d been slapped in the face with an Anti Charm.
After a few tests, Doctor Phlox stood back and proudly declared, “Allergies.” Then he dispelled a hypo into Malcolm’s neck.
“Allergies?” Malcolm repeated, relieved that his throat was beginning to return to normal.
“You had an anaphylactic reaction to something you ate, Mr. Reed.”
“Pineapple,” Tucker said, stepping forward. “He was eatin’ pineapple in the mess when it happened.” He turned his gaze to Malcolm. “You didn’t know?”
Malcolm scowled. “Of course I bloody didn’t. I’ve never had this happen before. How did this happen?” He turned to Phlox as he said this, hoping the true meaning of his words was conveyed. Phlox, fortunately, understood after a couple seconds.
“The Lieutenant is in safe hands, I assure you,” he addressed Tucker. “I believe you are due back on duty, Commander.”
Tucker seemed reluctant to leave, but he gave Malcolm one last look before stepping through the doors. Once he was gone, Doctor Phlox turned to his patient.
“I don’t know precisely why you have an allergy, Mr Reed,” he said. “You’ve never had anything like this happen before?”
“I’ve been alive for eight hundred bloody years; no, I haven’t.” Malcolm snapped. “I shouldn’t have allergies. I’m not a human.”
Phlox raised an eyebrow at this new information but didn’t comment on it. “I see. Well, it seems you have developed an allergy, though I can’t be certain of when if this is your first time experiencing it. In all likelihood, you’ve always had an adverse reaction to bromelain – ah, the plant enzyme found in pineapple, that is. That’s what you are allergic to.”
“Well, is there a way to cure it? I… found I rather liked the pineapple,” Malcolm admitted.
Phlox smiled broadly. “While there is no cure, I can start you on regular injections to build up your body’s tolerance to bromelain. It would take a while before you could eat pineapple without experiencing anaphylaxis, and for the first few treatments you will feel unwell, but it is the best offer I can give.”
“Fine,” Malcolm relented.
Much to his surprise, Commander Tucker was waiting for him out in the hall. They stared at each other for a moment before Malcolm breezed straight past.
“Wait, hey! Malcolm.” Tucker jogged to catch up and fell into step beside him. “You okay? You really didn’t look great, yer face was all blotchy and yer eyes were red, and you were havin’ trouble breathin’-”
“I’m fine, Sir,” Malcolm growled, resisting the urge to shove the man against the wall. “It’s just bloody allergies. Why are you so concerned?”
Tucker hesitated for a moment. “Yer my friend, Malcolm. That’s what friends do.”
Friends? This made Malcolm stop in his tracks, and Tucker stop along with him. The only people Malcolm could really have called friends in his life were the fellow Demons who had joined him in creating chaos. Decades ago.
Malcolm clenched his hands into fists and carefully considered his words. “You’re my superior, Sir. I appreciate your concern, but I assure you, I don’t need it.”
Why did the hurt that flashed across Tucker’s face make him feel guilty? Damn it! He was spending too much time around humans. He needed to punch something.
“Fine. Be that way.” Tucker’s voice was now cold with an undercurrent of hurt still barely concealed. “I gotta get down to engineerin’. I’ll see you at dinner. Or not, I dunno.” Then he walked briskly down the hall.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Malcolm unleashed his conflicting emotions and turned and punched the wall so hard he left a significant dent.
“Is he in a bad mood today or did I do something specifically to piss him off?”
Malcolm’s ears caught the sound of Crewman Eddie Mancini’s timid voice from around the rack of torpedoes.
“Nah, nothing you did,” came the response of one of Malcolm’s armoury crewmen, Ensign Duraid. “He’s in a bit of a demon mode today, what with these aliens and the phase cannons and everything.”
“Demon mode?” The echo was incredulous, a hint of amusement behind Mancini’s tone.
“Yeah. It’s what we call-”
Feeling himself bristle, Malcolm temporarily stopped rerouting the torpedoes and made his presence known to the two gossiping men. “I hope you have something better to do,” he said, eyes narrowed, “than standing around chattering.”
Mancini and Duraid snapped to attention instantly. “Yes, sir,” said the Armoury ensign. “And, uh, sorry, Sir. We’ll get right on it.” With a nervous look cast between them, they scuttled off. Malcolm returned to his work.
It was true, Malcolm was being more short-tempered with his team than usual, but ‘Demon mode’? It was childish, but also just a bit too on the nose for Malcolm’s liking. Surely they couldn’t know. Doctor Phlox was the only one who knew he wasn’t human, and Malcolm had been careful not to flash his teeth too much, not to let his anger get the best of him so that his eyes shone. He snapped sometimes, sure, but rarely did he get angry at his team. They were efficient and hard-working mortals and he almost never found cause to get angry with them.
He was so far lost in his in thoughts he didn’t notice Commander Tucker coming up behind him. “Have you still got those guns of yers hooked up to impulse engines?”
Malcolm didn’t let his surprise show. “I’m just disconnecting them now.”
“No, hang on a minute.” Tucker stepped forward. “Yer sure this’ll work?”
“Yes, Commander,” Malcolm said, exasperated. “I am.”
Tucker nodded. “Then based on the recommendation of the armoury officer, the chief engineer finds the level of risk acceptable.”
Malcolm gave him an appraising look. He seemed serious, and Malcolm was glad he was finally considering the safety of the ship instead of just what was safe. He was getting quite sick of these humans resisting his every attempt to upgrade anything pertaining to the weapons systems. “In that case, if the chief engineer wouldn’t mind getting his hands dirty, I could use some help.”
Their argument last month seemingly forgotten, all tensions washed away, Malcolm discovered he and Tucker actually worked well together on a level that was more than professional.
He wasn’t sure what to think when, after everything was over, he was presented with a pineapple cake courtesy of Archer, Hoshi, and Tucker on his “birthday”. Malcolm had actually completely lost track of the date and forgotten when he’d put his birthday down. His surprise was genuine – but he was also annoyed. What use was this mortal ritual to him?
“It was Trip who figured out the pineapple,” Archer told him, way too cheery. “Hoshi even contacted your parents; they couldn’t tell us what your favourite food was.”
Dear lord, they’d contacted his parents? Malcolm himself hadn’t even done that in years! He smirked to himself as he imagined what sort of story his father had concocted to explain away… well, everything.
“I’m allergic,” Malcolm said bluntly as a knife was thrust into his hand. He briefly wondered what it was for, before realising it was to cut the cake. Obviously.
“I know,” said Hoshi. “But you’ve been taking that medication, right? That lets you eat it?” Now she was looking somewhat ashamed, like she was afraid she’d done something wrong. “Oh, don’t tell me…”
“No, I-I have,” Malcolm amended quickly. He cut a square out of the cake and held placed it on one of the plates the linguist had brought with her. “It… does smell good,” he offered with what he hoped looked like a genuine smile.
This seemed to relax Hoshi and she smiled back.
“Well, don’t jus’ stare at it!” Tucker drawled. “It’s yer birthday! That means you get the first slice.”
Malcolm looked around the small group of smiling, eager faces. Well, he supposed indulging this one human ritual wouldn’t hurt. And the cake was good.
After the birthday situation, Tucker resumed his attempts at forcing his friendship onto Malcolm, and Malcolm, to his surprise, found himself resisting less and less. It started to seem pointless to do so. The birthday cake had touched him, not that he’d ever admit it out loud, and cracked open his darkened soul to allow just the faintest bit of light in. It was a lonely existence to be surrounded by people and never attempt to interact with them. Even if those people were mortals.
They grew even closer after the incident on the shuttlepod. Malcolm had never been in any real danger; he could have survived for days without oxygen. The cold was a different story, but Malcolm still recovered faster than Trip, the explanation being Trip’s lack of a blanket after he’d attempted to lock himself in the airlock in an attempt to give Malcolm a better shot at living. Not that he needed it. Trip didn’t know that, though, and Malcolm hadn’t told him.
They shared a tent in the permanent darkness of the rogue planet. Now, that had been an incident which spiked Malcolm’s anxiety. One of the hunters had examined his scanner for a little too long and Malcolm had worried his anomalies had been picked up, but no one said anything.
Trip liked to touch things, Malcolm found. Possibly because of his being an engineer. He would place a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder, pull him into humiliating hugs and laugh when Malcolm resisted.
Trip’s hand was always warm.
Everything came to a head during an away mission gone horribly wrong. Some aliens – not Suliban, thank god; Malcolm found it difficult to counter them when they could shapeshift so easily – became paranoid, believing Enterprise, being far superior in terms of weapon capacity, was out to get them, and managed to capture Trip and Malcolm off guard while they were on their moon base attempting to fix some energy generator of theirs.
Malcolm struggled against the bonds that held his wrists together, just for show. He could get out if he wanted to, but that required use of his powers, and he was not going to use his powers in front of the mortals, especially Trip. Trip would hate him, be scared of him.
(And why did that disturb him so much?)
The door to their cell creaked open and three aliens stormed in. They went right to Malcolm and backhanded him across the face, causing Trip to yell, “Leave him alone!”
“All due respect, Commander,” Malcolm hissed from where he now lay toppled onto his side, “shut up.”
As usual, the aliens only demanded one thing: “Tell us your true mission!” They were hideous creatures, skin a sickening jaundice yellow with pure white eyes too large for their tiny heads and six claws on each hand. Malcolm had sensed no demon activity around their heads nor anywhere on their moon base. They were just naturally paranoid bastards, it seemed.
“We told ya – we’re just here to help ya with yer generator!”
The butt of a rifle hit Malcolm’s stomach as soon as Trip opened his mouth. Somewhere along the line, the aliens had learned that hurting Malcolm kept the Commander in line. One of them grabbed Malcolm by his hair and lifted him upright. Malcolm found himself staring down the barrel of a gun. He couldn’t help it – he smirked.
“Your true mission,” said the one holding Malcolm. “Tell us, or I kill your security man.”
I’d like to see you try, Malcolm thought.
Behind him, Trip had grown suddenly pale, eyes darting between the Lieutenant and the trio of paranoid aliens. They’d been here – was it two days now? Must be. Already, they had threatened the same thing three times before, twice about Malcolm and once about Trip. It had not proven effective, and the aliens hadn’t followed through. They’d merely sighed in frustration and left.
But there was something in the eyes of the aliens this time that told Malcolm they were in no mood to bluff anymore.
“Contact Starfleet,” Trip tried, deceptively calm. “They’ll confirm what I’m sayin’.”
“Your true mission.” The barrel was pressed against his forehead now.
Trip swallowed. “We’re on a peaceful mission of exploration-”
He was cut off by the sound of the rifle firing.
Someone was screeching. Loudly.
It was hurting Malcolm’s ears.
Malcolm shifted slightly on the rough ground, feeling numb in his entire upper body. His brain was sluggish. He couldn’t seem to remember…
The screeching stopped, replacing it were hollow thuds of blows landing. Malcolm pried his eyes open and stared at a grimy grey ceiling. How did he get here? There was the distress call, the alien moon colony, the broken generator, beaming down with Trip…
Trip! Malcolm shot upright and groaned when a spike of pain pierced through his skull. Right. He’d taken a shot to the face. No wonder Trip had sounded so panicked.
But Trip didn’t sound panicked now. No, he sounded… hurt. Malcolm blinked, his vision blurred before focussing, and he saw the scene in front of him.
Three against one. Malcolm may have been a Demon, but he believed in fair fights, at least. It was no fun if someone had a clear advantage. He struggled to his knees but fell flat on his arse instead. Dammit, why was he taking so long to regenerate?
The aliens were yelling, asking the same question over and over, while Trip repeated a litany of “I’m telling the truth!” and various colourful swears. Suddenly the blows stopped, and Malcolm watched in horror as one of the aliens grabbed Trip’s right arm, held it tight in both clawed hands-
The sound of snapping bone reverberated through the enclosed space, followed immediately by an ear-piercing scream – and Malcolm felt pure unadulterated rage course through him. The aliens must have gotten impatient, perhaps they were on a deadline, and their impatience would be their downfall.
Malcolm flew at them. He didn’t quite know what he was doing. Things happened in a blur; he could smell the tang of alien blood, hear the frantic screams and cries in a foreign tongue, felt skin ripping in his claws and bone snapping – irony or karma, call it what you like.
He was panting when it was over. Still not quite regenerated fully, standing over the dead bodies of three aliens – and only then realising he had a witness. He turned around slowly.
Trip was staring at him, slack-jawed, cradling his broken arm in one hand. There were new bruises blossoming all over his face and neck and cuts on his shoulder. “Malcolm?” he asked eventually, voice soft. “What the hell?”
Malcolm opened his mouth to respond, staggered, then promptly lost consciousness.
He returned to reality slowly, not sure at first what had drawn him out of the void. He felt… well, he felt all right, for the most part. A bit drained. He’d obviously used up more of his powers than his body could take in his weakened state. The aliens hadn’t been very good hosts.
Voices drifted past his ears, soft, indistinct. He kept his eyes closed and strained his hearing but could only catch snippets of what was being said.
“…wanted information, didn’t believe we… kept hittin’ him… I swear, I saw it… suddenly he…”
That was Trip’s Southern drawl, no doubt.
“…can’t divulge… healed fast, but… should ask him yourself… careful…”
And that, to his surprise, was Doctor Phlox. Phlox? Sickbay.
Malcolm opened his eyes and sat up gingerly. His movement brought the doctor bustling over, checking over his vitals, running a scanner up his body, not that he needed to and they both knew it. It was simply a show to keep up the human premise in front of Commander Tucker – though Malcolm knew that ship had sailed.
He could, he supposed, try to manipulate the engineer’s memory. But the way Trip was staring at him with those blue eyes full of confusion and concern, he suddenly found unable to even think about it.
Damn. He really was growing soft.
“You are healing up nicely, Mr Reed,” Phlox said cheerfully. “If you’d like, I have some burn cream so your, uh…” He gestured to Malcolm’s forehead, “wound can heal.”
“That’s all right,” Malcolm declined, cringing slightly. He probably had a giant phaser burn right smack in the centre of his face, but that was easily fixed. His other wounds would just take more time.
Doctor Phlox looked back and forth between his two patients. When Trip cleared his throat, a look of understanding suddenly dawned on him and he took an awkward step back. “Well, uh… it’s feeding time for my bat, and I just realised I left her food in the cargo bay. I’ll be back in a moment. Press the button above your headrest should you need anything.” Then he bustled out of sickbay.
Once he was gone, Trip took an annoyingly long time to actually speak.
“What the hell was that about?”
Malcolm didn’t look up, he stared at his hands instead. There was still yellow blood beneath his now retracted claws. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said, surprised to discover he meant it.
Through his peripheral vision, he saw Trip shake his head. “Oh, no. I don’t care about yer apologies, Malcolm. You were… fuck, you were dead. You had a hole blown through your fucking face! And then a few minutes later you just… stood up, like nothing’d happened, and you were fine ‘cept for the burns and bruises, the hole was gone and you just… what the hell?” he finished in the same cadence as he had on the station, though noticeably more slurred from the effect of the painkillers he was on. “It was like you were… possessed or somethin’.”
Malcolm laughed. Oh, the irony. “You’re not far off.”
For a second, Trip just stared at him, stunned. “Malcolm, how the hell were you dead one minute and alive the next? Who… what are you?”
This was the moment where Malcolm could have reached into Trip’s mind and extracted the memory, replaced it with something else; he would probably have to do something about the doctor as well. But he found he couldn’t do it. Whether it was the curiosity in Trip’s eyes, overriding the obvious fear, or whether it was because he was too exhausted, he couldn’t say.
“I’m a Demon,” Malcolm said, flashing a toothy grin that held no actual positivity. “The name is Mallos, but I find I greatly prefer Malcolm while on Enterprise, if it’s all the same to you.”
This was obviously not what Trip had been expecting. His eyes grew wide and he flopped back onto his pillow, free hand absently picking at the cast around his broken arm. “Jesus,” the engineer whispered. “Demon. You mean like, evil spirit? Are you from Hell? Do you… torture people?”
“You don’t seem to have any trouble believing what I’m saying.”
“Naw, I am.” Trip turned his head to look at him. “It might be the drugs. I feel a bit off. Floaty. But at the same time, I did just see you completely recover from having a rifle fired point blank at your head.” He shuddered a bit, obviously reliving the memory. “What the hell’s a Demon doin’ on a Starship anyway?”
“That’s a long story,” said Malcolm.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’d rather not talk about it,” Malcolm reiterated with a hiss.
Fortunately, Trip took the hint. He brought his uninjured hand up over his eyes and gave a quiet, breathy chuckle. “Damn. I thought I’d fallen for some weapons-obsessed Brit with a stick up his ass, but it turns out I’ve fallen for a whole fuckin’ Demon.”
Sickbay dove into an uncomfortable silence.
“Shit. I think Phlox has me on a lotta medication. I-I did not mean to say that.”
“You’ve… fallen for me?” Malcolm sat up straighter and scrutinized the mortal engineer in the bio-bed next to him. “Like, love?”
“I dunno. Love? Crush? Nah, crush sounds to much like a middle school thing. Hell, maybe I have fallen in love with ya, Malcolm. Mallos.”
“Malcolm,” Malcolm corrected.
“Right.” Trip removed the arm from his eyes but continued staring straight at the ceiling. “S’rry. An’ here I was worried about bein’ too obvious, and it sounds like you didn’t have a damn clue.”
Malcolm swung his legs over the side of the bed. Finally, Trip turned to look at him.
“I’m sorry if this is... I dunno, taboo or anythin’ by the way. I dunno yer… demon rules. Do you like us mortal humans? Are you allowed to?”
“I’m allowed to do anything I want,” Malcolm said shortly. “I just…” He sighed. “This has never happened before. I, uh, I’m sure you’ll get over it.”
“Get over it?” Trip propped himself up onto his elbows, wincing when the IV in his arm was jostled. “Damn. That’s a bit harsh, even for a demon.” His tone suggested a joke but Malcolm didn’t find it very funny. “So, that means you don’t return my feelings?” There was hope in Trip’s eyes, hope he was obviously trying to hide, but the engineer had always worn his heart on his sleeve.
Malcolm opened his mouth to say no, he didn't, but the words wouldn’t come out.
Shit.
When a dopey, triumphant smile crossed Trip’s lips, Malcolm swooped in to stall the best he could. “You’re delirious with pain medication,” he said. “You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re... you’re straight up admitting to being willing to start a relationship with a Demon. A Demon! And you just accepted me like that. Shouldn’t you be scared? Worried I’ll eat your soul or something?”
“Yer not particularly scary,” Trip said, that stupid smile still on his face. “Well, I know ya can be, but not right now. An’ you’d’ve eaten my soul already if ya wanted.” His eyes began to droop and his head turned to face the pillow. “’m feelin’ sleepy now, anyway. We’ll talk ‘bout it t’morrow. G’night, Mal.” He fell asleep almost instantly, soft snores echoing around the empty sickbay.
Wait. Not quite empty.
“Satan alive!” Malcolm cried, jumping back at the sight of Phlox hovering just a few feet away. “When the bloody hell did you come in? Did you hear all that?”
“I detected a rise in the Commander’s heartbeat and came to check in. I heard most of it.” Phlox’s voice was uncharacteristically emotionless.
Malcolm ran a hand through his hair. “He didn’t mean what he said, right?” he asked.
Phlox stepped over to the side of Trip’s bio-bed and, without his eyes leaving the monitors, said, “I think you should take it seriously, Lieutenant, if you want my advice. But you should also tread lightly. Very likely when Commander Tucker is more… himself, he may feel confused all over again. I must admit, I am feeling the same.” He gave Malcolm a once over. “A Demon. There’s been rumours of such creatures existing on Denobula, but I had no idea one from Earth would decide to make a life on a starship for himself.”
Malcolm hissed but didn’t respond.
“Take what Mr Tucker said seriously, Lieutenant,” Phlox reiterated. “But consider your own emotions. Your own… metaphorical heart.” The corners of his lips twitched upwards. “And remember what I said about not bringing harm to anyone.”
“I understand. For what it’s worth, doctor, you and the rest of the mortals – I’ve grown rather attached.” Malcolm mustered up a half-smile, and to his surprise Phlox’s own widened.
“Well, that is splendid! I’d suggest you go to sleep now, you seem to have exhausted your own natural healing abilities and, like anything, the best cure for that is rest. I can administer a sedative if you-”
“No sedatives,” Malcolm said quickly, wincing at some bad memories. “I can get to sleep on my own.” As he lay himself back down on the silent bio-bed, he turned his head to stare at Trip’s sleeping form, and he felt an unfamiliar emotion pang in his chest.
Unfamiliar, but not unpleasant.
Dammit. Of all things to go soft on, it had to be matters of love, didn’t it?