Chapter Text
It was as if the entire planet was screaming. Even in orbit Malcolm could feel the combined pain and agony, the fear emanating off the billions of souls, as he stared out the viewscreen in shocked silence. His own soul, most of it anyway, was eager to take in that fear and anguish, feed off it, draw strength from it – but he couldn’t.
Why not? his mind hissed. There’s so much of it. They won’t notice if you take just a little.
He couldn’t. Wouldn’t.
His eyes flickered to Trip who was standing in mute shock on the bridge. He’d come up against the captain’s recommendations, wanting to see the disaster himself. A four-thousand-kilometre-long trench marring the face of the blue and green globe the humans called home. And Malcolm – because despite the burning underworld he had first emerged from, he had also come to see the planet as his home in recent years.
He turned his gaze back to the viewscreen. He shook his head, opened his mouth to say something but… what would he say? Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Archer turn, an unreadable expression on his face. Malcolm closed his mouth again.
The bridge remained silent.
Returning to earth was a strange affair, to say the least. He came down in the second shuttlepod with Trip and a few other crewmembers. The commander didn’t say a word, not even to comment on Malcolm’s uncharacteristic display of affection in the form of taking his hand. The physical contact amplified Trip’s pain – his mind was in turmoil. Malcolm resisted the urge to let go, and instead he absorbed a small fraction of this pain, easing it off his partner so subtly that he was sure not to notice.
Trip went right to his awaiting family the minute the shuttlepod docked. Malcolm went to greet his sister, who was standing inconspicuously off to the side. The familiar smell of woodsmoke drifted into his nostrils as he got closer.
“Glad to see you’ve made something of yourself,” was Madeleine’s greeting, a smirk dancing on her lips, “as opposed to just killing and torturing.”
Malcolm scowled. “Who said anything about not killing or torturing? I only do it when there’s an aim now. It’s good to see you too.”
“Uh-huh.” Madeleine waved him off, her eyes drifting to Trip. “Who’s he? You were giving him eyes.”
“Commander Tucker. He’s a… friend.”
“Oh, you’re making friends with the mortals now? Who are you and what have you done with Mallos?”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d call me Malcolm while we’re here.” Malcolm crossed his arms. “How’s mum and dad? They still griping about my life choices? I swear they’d rather have me go back to taking souls and killing mortals than be in Starfleet.”
Madeleine shrugged. “It’s not like they can do much about it. You’re more powerful than both of them combined, the way they do nothing but sit around in Hell bossing the underlings about these days.” She dropped her voice as a group of people walked past.
They continued chatting, Madeleine asking about the Xindi and Malcolm offering what little information he had. No Demon influence as far as he could tell, though there was some time travel bullshit going on according to Captain Archer. When she asked him if he was staying on, Malcolm answered with a firm, “of course.”
After fifteen minutes, Madeleine gave him a quick hug and disappeared into the crowd. Malcolm returned to Trip. He’d promised to be there for the visit to the trench in Florida, and he wasn’t about to break that promise.
It was an impressive sight. Tragic, but impressive. Trip began pointing out things he remembered, his old house, a movie theatre. Malcolm asked if he was certain Elizabeth had been here during the attack.
“Someone would’ve heard from her if she wasn’t,” the engineer answered brokenly.
They stood in silence for a few moments. Then Malcolm stepped forward and placed a hand on Trip’s arm. “We’ll get the bastards,” he said.
“Not if Starfleet doesn’t greenlight the mission.”
“They will.” His hand tightened unconsciously but Trip didn’t say anything. “They’ll let us go, if I have to march down to headquarters and plant that suggestion in their heads myself.”
This, at least, earned him a half-hearted snort.
Malcolm spent the rest of his time on Earth hunting down evidence of Demon activity in the Xindi’s actions, even though he hadn’t sensed any so far. Better safe than sorry, as Trip always said. He enlisted the help of some underlings he knew he could trust, and if they were surprised to see their old boss again, they didn’t show it.
Jahi and Roman yielded nothing, but Oniko came forward with a barely noticeable flicker of Demon influence unknown to all of them. There was something distorted about it, nothing like Malcolm had experienced in meeting that Andorian Demon, so it wasn't to do with the trace being alien. He couldn’t pinpoint the reason and neither could Oniko.
Malcolm didn’t hear from Trip until the news that their mission into the Expanse was approved. They didn’t go back up together. Malcolm was willing to give Trip some space – and even thankful for it, the amount of pain and sadness radiating off him was sometimes too much for Malcolm deal with – but he did wish Trip would at least communicate. Wasn’t that one of the things he’d taught him about human relationships? Open communication was good? So then why was Trip so adamant about going it alone all of a sudden? Malcolm said as much to Trip, who blew up at him in a fit of rage and tears.
“Yer not even human,” the engineer snarled. “What makes you think you’d understand anythin’ I said to you, even if I wanted to talk?”
“Your emotions are so loud! I’m practically experiencing them by proxy.”
“But you have no clue what kind of pain there is in losin’ a family member, do you? Yer baby sibling? No, ya don’t! And ya never will.”
Later on, Trip came by Malcolm’s quarters to apologize. Malcolm accepted it hesitantly, which Trip noticed and immediately proceeded to go on a minute-long ramble about how being human didn’t mean he didn’t love Malcolm, the sickly-sweet words almost as bad as the hurt Trip now carried around constantly.
And Trip wasn’t the only one wound up tight. The entire crew, the ones that stayed anyway, were in constant states of confusion, fear, anger, sadness, and anxiety. Malcolm steered clear of any public places, especially the mess hall, unable to deal with the emotions that slammed into him the moment he walked through the door. It was nauseating. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if staying on was such a good idea if this was the environment he would now be surrounded by.
So Trip was dealing with losing his sister and his home; Archer was preparing for a tedious mission that could lead to disaster, T’Pol was torn between loyalties, and the crew were on edge. Malcolm wasn’t immune to his own problems.
Captain Archer had implemented a team of military trained fighters, MACOs they were called, led by a man named Major Hayes. Malcolm took one look and wanted to throttle him. He screamed smugness, superiority, and hardly had the decency to feel even the slightest bit awkward or out of place. No, he strolled in with his black-clad assault-rifle-wielding team like he bloody owned the place. And Archer expected him to work with the man? Two days before they were set to launch, Malcolm stormed into Trip’s quarters ranting about some stupid routines Hayes wanted to implement, routines that would disrupt Malcolm’s own carefully structured duty roster in the armoury. He cut himself off when he caught Trip staring at him, eyes wide. “What?”
Trip shook his head, gestured faintly at Malcolm’s forehead. Malcolm reached a hand up and huffed. “Oh, bloody brilliant. I’ll need to keep myself in better check, then.”
“What… the hell?” Trip’s eyes flitted back and forth between Malcolm’s eyes and the horns that now cut through his dishevelled dark hair. “God, and I thought you said the stereotypes were wrong.”
“Most of them are,” Malcolm grumbled. “My, er, horns only really emerge when I’m angry. Or down in Hell.”
“That’s the first time I’ve ever seen this.”
“It’s the first time I’ve ever been this pissed off. At everything.” Malcolm leaned against the wall and banged his head against the bulkhead once. “Hayes is a right asshole, and of course I’m expected to be civil. We’re heading into a barely explored, dangerous region of space. And Oniko still hasn’t gotten back to me about the traces she found on the Xindi weapon.”
Trip blinked. “Traces? Traces of what?”
Oh, shit. He forgot he hadn’t told Trip. “Very minute traces of Demon influence,” Malcolm explained in a low voice. “None of us recognized the signature, but there was something… I don’t know, off about it. Fuck, of course my horns had to appear now. I can’t go out like this!”
“Here, just-” Trip dug around his closet and threw a dark blue baseball cap at him, “-wear that. Now, what the fuck was that about a demon signature? Ya mean, the Xindi are alien demons?”
“No, not them.” Malcolm tugged on the hat and rolled his eyes. He must look ridiculous, but it was better that than stroll around with horns for all to see. “We think they may have been influenced by some race of previously unknown Demons. It’s hard to say, though. Oniko should have gotten back to me by now, but-” He cut himself off, drew in a breath, and groaned. “Oh, bloody fucking hell.”
“Yeah, you can say that again.” Trip bit his lip. “This entire thing is a mess. Demons? Have ya told Cap’n Archer?”
Malcolm shook his head. “I don’t want to say anything until I’m certain. If it turns out that we are dealing with a Demon race behind this, then it’s a good thing I decided to stay on.”
“You know,” Trip said after a moment of silence, “for a moment I thought, maybe if these Xindi are being influenced by demons, maybe it ain’t their fault. But…” His jaw hardened, and he looked away. “Nah, I don’t care. I wanna strangle the bastards. I wanna hunt down every last one of ‘em. I wanna make ‘em pay for what they did to my home.”
“I know.” Trip’s pain was swallowed quickly by anger so fierce, unlike anything Malcolm had ever felt from the engineer before. “And we will.”
Trip look up at him. His eyes were cold, hard. “We better.”
It took seven weeks of travelling at warp five for them to even reach the edge of the Expanse. On the cusp of the seventh week, Malcolm was in his quarters, fighting boredom by turning an empty alcohol bottle into varying species of snakes when a call came through on a private channel. A head of curled dark hair popped up on his screen. Malcolm waved the bottle back to its original form and turned his attention to the monitor. “Cutting it close, don’t you think? We’re almost out of range.”
Oniko rested her sunglasses on the top of her head. “At least I called at all, boss. I could’ve easily just left you hanging.” She smirked. “So, do you want to yell at me, or hear what I have to say?”
“Please tell me you identified the Demon species.”
She shook her head. “Sorry. I did figure out the distortion, though.”
“Get on with it,” Malcolm snapped as she paused for dramatic effect, knowing just how much it irritated him.
“Fine, fine. You’re just as fun as ever. It’s a temporal distortion.”
Malcolm narrowed his eyes. “Temporal distortion?”
“Uh-huh. Didn’t you say something about a lot of time travelling going on up there with your captain? Didn’t he get shot forward a thousand years, or something?” Oniko’s exaggerated curiosity was dripping in disbelief.
“So, a species of Demons with time travelling abilities.” Malcolm fully ignored her. “Marvellous. Anything else?”
“What, not even a thank you?” She fake-pouted, then laughed at Malcolm’s murderous look. “Sorry, boss. Maybe you could contact your blue alien friend, he might know more if he’s been out there longer. I’m just a-” Malcolm shut off the communication and leaned forward on his desk. Even if he had a way to contact the Andorian – Shran, if he remembered correctly – there was little chance of him knowing about the type of Demons they were dealing with.
He debated telling Captain Archer about what he knew, eventually deciding against it. The captain had enough to deal with already. And anyway, he’d been wary enough for weeks after Malcolm revealed his own identity as a Demon to him. Telling him that they were up against some – there was no way to predict how the man would react.
His musings were interrupted by the comm. “Major Hayes to Lieutenant Reed.”
“Reed here,” Malcolm answered, not even bothering to keep the displeasure out of his voice.
Hayes didn’t miss a beat. “Could you come down to the armoury, sir? There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”
“Can it wait? I’m in the middle of something important here,” Malcolm half-lied.
“Very well, sir,” was the crisp response, with only a slight note of hesitation.
His quarters weren’t silent for even a minute when the comm. chimed again. Frustrated, Malcolm slammed his hand down. “What?!”
“Malcolm.” It was Trip’s voice this time, slightly confused, and Malcolm sighed. “Is this a bad time?”
“No, sorry.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “What do you need?”
“I was just wonderin’ if you wanted to join me for dinner. I know you might be busy-”
“I’ll be right there.” Malcolm zipped up his uniform and slipped out the door. He couldn’t tell Archer about what he’d learned, but Trip fed off the information like it was the only thing keeping him alive. Somewhere deep down, Malcolm felt a flicker of concern for his friend and partner, but he shoved it to the side. Human emotions contributed significantly to their actions, and perhaps Trip needed this kind of rage and determination right now.
After dinner, Trip dragged him to his quarters, where they promptly fell onto the bed, kissing and touching any area they could reach. At some point Malcolm pulled back, sensing something different in Trip. “What’s wrong?”
The engineer’s jaw settled into a determined line. “Rougher.”
“What?”
“Kiss me rougher. Please.” When Malcolm hesitated, Trip grabbed the back of his neck and tugged him down, lips clashing together in something that felt almost like desperation but tasted of fury as well, not directed at him.
“I’m not delicate,” Trip panted when they broke apart. “I won’t break under you.”
You don’t know that, Malcolm thought darkly. Out loud he murmured, “Alright.”
Trip bore small bruises on his face and neck by the time he fell asleep. Malcolm stayed wide awake beside him, tracing the marks with a feather-light touch as emotions clambered in his mind and tripped over each other. Rage was something he typically enjoyed feeling, but coming off of Trip it just felt wrong.
Malcolm lay his palm flat against the side of Trip’s head. Careful not to wake him, he began to draw out a small amount of the anger, felt it course through his veins as Trip shifted beneath him, previously taunt muscles finally relaxing.
Pirates. Bloody pirates. The anomalies knocking out most of their power was bad enough, but of course there were pirates to come and take advantage of their defenceless state, stealing anything they could get their hands on.
Murdering a member of their crew.
Oh, if only Malcolm could get his hands on their prisoner. Archer wanted information? Malcolm could get that information. Unfortunately, the Captain had restricted brig access, and Malcolm was not included on the short list.
He had a brief run-in with Trip in the mess hall late one night as the engineer was attempting to rewrite the laws of physics to better fit in what they knew about the Expanse. A question about sleep revealed Trip’s nightly sessions of “neuropressure” with T’Pol, something with Trip clearly hated. “I’m supposed to be sleepin’ better, but so far there’s been no change,” he sighed. “You wear me out far better than she does. I dunno why Phlox insists on this.”
“She wears you out?” Malcolm raised an eyebrow.
“You know what I mean.” Trip waved a hand. He turned his gaze back to the PADDs in front of him. “God, how am I supposed to do this? Nothin’ I’ve ever learned in my life makes sense out here. We haven’t even been out here a month an’ we’re already doomed!”
“Not doomed,” Malcolm said. “We’ve picked up the Osaarian’s ion trail. If only Captain Archer would let me at the prisoner, we could probably already have found them by now.”
Trip looked up at him. “Freaky demon powers?”
“At least I wouldn’t feel so useless! I’m already limited to human standards when around the others.”
“I can’t imagine.” Trip shook his head.
As it happened, Malcolm didn’t have to wait long to get his wish. Following the Osaarian’s ion trail revealed a cache of supplies, including the ones stolen from Enterprise, and information on the Xindi downloaded onto the Osaarian’s database.
Malcolm arrived at the airlock just as it was depressurizing, a security ensign in tow. “Captain?”
“Everything’s under control, Lieutenant.” Archer’s voice was hard.
Malcolm looked back at the ensign, motioned him away. The man looked confused for a moment but dutifully turned around and headed back down the corridor. Once he was sure he was out of earshot, Malcolm stepped forward. “Sir.”
“I said I’m handling things, Malcolm!”
The alien was gasping by now, clutching at his neck, but there was still resolve in his eyes and Malcolm knew this wasn’t working, the Captain was simply killing the alien. They’d end up with nothing. “Sir!”
Finally, Archer turned around, his expression twisted in rage. Malcolm schooled his features into a carefully constructed mask of indifference. “Sir, I’ll take him back to the brig. Let me try.”
A dozen different emotions flicked across the captain’s face; Malcolm couldn’t identify them all. For a moment he thought Archer was going to refuse. Then, reluctantly, he hit the airlock controls and the door opened, air rushing in to repressurize, and the alien fell at their feet.
“Come on.” Malcolm lifted the gasping mess upright by the back of his shirt and shoved him forward.
The alien laughed breathlessly. “What’s a… scrawny little thing like… like you going to do… to me?”
Malcolm did not dignify that with a response. He escorted the alien back to the brig, Archer in tow. The captain was left out in the hall as Malcolm shoved the Osaarian roughly through the door, then followed suit.
It took only five minutes. The smirk was wiped off the alien’s face faster than one could blink. Leaving the Osaarian in a heap on the floor, Malcolm triggered the door controls to allow his captain access. “It’s done, sir,” he said, allowing no emotion in his voice. He would never admit the pleasure he felt as he picked apart the alien’s willpower. It had been so long since he’d gotten to do something like this.
Archer regarded the alien, then Malcolm. No words were passed between them for a long moment. With a start, Malcolm noticed he felt no disgust from Archer; no guilt, surprise, or fear. Nothing, he realised, he’d expected. No, the only discernible emotion emitting from the captain was anger.
As was so common these days.
“Great work, Lieutenant,” Archer said. “Now-” he crouched down in front of the Osaarian, “-perhaps you’re more willing to tell me what you know about the Xindi.”
They ended up with 90% of the Xindi database and releasing the Osaarian prisoner, who mustered out a weak, “too civilized” as he passed by Archer, but the tremble in his voice downplayed his attempt at taunting. Malcolm felt a stab of pride, followed immediately by shame as he met Trip’s eyes; never mind that the engineer was smiling at him.
Malcolm lay in his bunk two nights later, wide awake despite his attempts to sleep. Trip had come by with a couple drinks for them to share and while Malcolm hadn’t been in the mood, he’d indulged his partner anyway. It was a rare moment: Trip had been almost entirely positivity.
He was almost never so positive these days. No, more often he was radiating anger or pain. And he wasn’t the only one.
There was so much of it, surrounding, encompassing Malcolm. A part of him loved it. He wanted to absorb it through his skin, into his veins, feed and draw power from it – it wasn’t like anyone would notice. The other part, one would perhaps say that part that had softened from his time around humans, began to grow worried. The sheer amount was almost terrifying. Worse, a good portion of it was coming from Trip: the bright-eyed engineer who wore his heart on his sleeve, was raised a perfect gentleman, loved his warp engine more than anything. Trip was changing, and it worried Malcolm.
Almost worse was the difference in Captain Archer. Malcolm could hardly recognize the forever cheery, naïve man from all those months ago. The man who took his dog on walks through the corridors, who invited crewmembers to breakfast, stood up for them. The man with green eyes full of concern that used to make Malcolm sick.
Captain Archer, who was now willing to torture a man.
Trip, whose rage had bled into he and Malcolm’s intimate nights together.
The entire crew was changing. There were no more movie nights, and the chatter in the mess hall had lulled. Injuries were becoming so common that rarely did they go to sickbay for anything that wasn’t life-threatening. Very few of them socialised outside of work, and when they did, the only topics talked about were either the destruction back home or the Xindi.
Malcolm used to love torturing mortals. He used to love prying into their heads, feeding off their emotions, taking away their sanity until they were barely themselves, barely aware. In essence, he used to love taking the humanity away from humanity.
But now these humans were losing their humanity all by their own actions, and Malcolm had no idea what he was supposed to do.