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Malcolm is wheezing in his sleep again. A disturbing, rattling sound coming from deep in the confines of his ruined lungs. A fine sheen of sweat beads his forehead as he tosses and turns, struggles to draw in air, each breath thinner than the last.
Trip pushes himself up onto his elbows and gropes along the nightstand for the hypospray he always keeps there. It’s almost a habit by now, every time he wakes up to that awful sound. With one hand he settles Malcolm’s movements, and with the other he touches the hypo to man’s neck.
Malcolm immediately relaxes. His breathing evens out to something more normal, though still with the faint strain behind it that is always there now.
Placing the empty hypospray back down on the night table, Trip settles down beside his lover, keeping a hand on Malcolm’s chest so he can monitor his breathing. He closes his eyes.
He doesn’t get any more sleep that night.
The first few weeks are the worst of them. Malcolm struggled on the sterile environment that was the Enterprise; being back on Earth is plain hell. The minute they step foot off the shuttle Malcolm begins to cough and wheeze, doubling over with his arms wrapped around himself, drawing concerned looks from passersby until Trip frantically plunges the hypo Phlox gave him into the ex-lieutenant’s neck. In just a few moments Malcolm is taking in large gulps of air like he’s never tasted it before in his life. Trip keeps a steadying hand on his back, rubbing soothing circles and whispering nonsensical words of reassurance, completely ignoring the fact that they are still in the shuttle station.
“Thanks,” Malcolm gasps once he can talk again. “I don’t know if I could have…”
“Don’t mention it.” Trip waves him off. “Let’s go meet Madeline and maybe get some lunch, if you feel up for it.”
They never go to lunch that afternoon. Malcolm suffers another attack not a few hours later, forcing them to return to the modest apartment Trip calls home.
Madeline is gracious enough to help them unpack the various bags and boxes they have. Personal effects from Enterprise, trinkets and keepsakes they picked up during their mission. Trip catches Malcolm bent over a box, glazed eyes staring into it, and at first he thinks Malcolm’s about to have another attack but then he glances over his shoulder and spots the photograph.
It’s of Travis, Hoshi, and Malcolm. Trip remembers taking it in the first year of their mission, on some otherwise forgettable planet the crew decided to take a spot of shore leave on.
He looks up at Malcolm and sees tears in those grey eyes. Malcolm reaches out and reverently takes the photograph out of the box. A single tear lands on Hoshi’s face.
Gently, Trip places a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder and with the other hand takes the photograph from Malcolm’s grip. The dark-haired man lets him, slumping in defeat.
Trip draws him in for a hug as Madeline stands a few feet away watching, tears in her eyes as well.
Malcolm gets worse before he gets better. Unaccustomed to the environment on his own planet, he is prone to respiratory attacks more often than he ever was on Enterprise. Trip runs out of Malcolm’s medication on the first week and has to get permission first from Phlox then from Starfleet Medical for some more.
He steadily gets better, though, as his immune system slowly readjusts.
There are further worries, however. When Malcolm was medically discharged, Trip expected apathy from him or even anger, both of which the man portrayed before—but now Malcolm is downright depressed. He spends his days in bed or in front of the computer monitor, refreshing every news article that has been tracking Enterprise’s mission with a listless look on his face.
One day, Trip has enough.
“You need to get outside,” he practically pleads. “Go for a walk, or something.”
“Going for a walk could kill me,” Malcolm says, no inflection in his tone at all, and the dead acceptance behind his voice is somehow worse than any frustration could be.
“Then I’ll come with you,” Trip decides. “We’ll bring your meds.”
“I don’t want them.”
“Please, Malcolm.” Trip leans against the desk and forces their eyes to meet. “I can’t stand seeing you cooped up in here like this.”
“You don’t understand, Trip.” Malcolm’s eyes are shiny with unshed tears that he quickly tries to wipe away, to little success. “It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s that… I can’t. Not… Not as I am…” He trails off and hung his head.
Yet somehow through the incomprehensiveness of it, Trip understands.
Malcolm has lost more than his job. He’s lost his independence. He needs someone monitoring him when he’s outside, otherwise a simple stray piece of pollen can lead to a severe enough attack.
Trip reaches out and touches the back of Malcolm’s neck, draws him close so their foreheads are touching. For a moment they stay there, Malcolm’s eyes are shut and tears stream steadily down his cheeks as Trip watches their trail, feeling rather like he wants to cry as well.
“I’m sorry,” Trip chokes, because it’s all he can think of saying.
“It’s not your fault,” Malcolm whispers. “You’re just trying to help.”
“I just feel so helpless. I can’t… I can’t do anything to make this better.”
“Trip.” Malcolm reaches up and cups Trip’s cheek. “You’re an engineer. It’s not your job to fix people.”
“Well, I darn wish I could,” Trip says softly.
Trip has nightmares sometimes.
He dreams they’re back on the planet, and Malcolm is slowly suffocating behind him as he talks and laughs with Hoshi and a pair of alien locals, completely unaware to Malcolm’s suffering just a few feet away. By the time he turns around, Malcolm’s writhing has stopped. He lies completely still in the dirt with his unseeing eyes facing heavenward.
He dreams they’re on Enterprise in sickbay. Malcolm is kicking out on the bio-bed, hands clawing at his collar as Phlox and the medics struggle to sedate him. Then suddenly Malcolm goes limp, and all Trip can do is watch as the white sheet is placed over his lover, obscuring his face forever.
He dreams Phlox finds the cure, but it’s too late. Malcolm’s body is cold, in a box being shipped back to Earth like mere cargo.
He dreams he holds Malcolm as he dies.
When he wakes up, he shakes Malcolm awake because he has to be sure, and bears the man’s annoyed grumbles because he’s alive, he’s alive, and that’s all Trip cares about.
“I have to say, it’s nice to hear you’re both doing better,” Archer says, a slight smile on his face. His voice cuts out slightly, the long-distance communication not quite perfected.
Trip runs a hand down his face and looks away. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “For the most part.”
“Trip?”
“It’s just…” Trip pushes the chair back a bit. “Some days it’s almost normal, you know? And then some days it’s… I dunno. I mean, I expected this. I didn’t expect things to just click right away. But it’s hard.” He scoffs. “And listen to me complaining. As if I have any right.”
“You do have that right,” Archer tells him. “This affects you as well.”
“I don’t regret it,” Trip says quickly.
“I never said that,” says Archer.
Trip exhales heavily again and thrusts a hand through his hair. “I just wish it didn’t have to be this way.”
There’s a pained look on Archer’s face. “Me too, Trip. Me too.”
The sound of a door opening alerts Trip to the fact that his partner has returned. “I have to go,” he tells the computer monitor.
“Take care, Trip,” Archer says. “Tell Malcolm I said hi.”
The screen goes black.
The first time Trip brings up the topic of leaving, Archer simply stares at him with an open-mouthed expression of shock, and Trip almost wishes he hadn’t said anything at all.
Almost.
“You can’t be serious,” Archer says once he’s regained his bearings.
“I’m serious.” Trip’s voice is barely above a whisper.
Archer brings a hand to his forehead and sighs. He paces about the ready room a moment, comes to a stop at the window and stares out at the stagnant stars. They’re still orbiting the planet, gathering up the last few samples of the pollen that wreaked havoc on Malcolm’s immune system and nearly killed him.
He’s already losing one man. He doesn’t want to lose another.
But there’s a defiant look on Trip’s face, and Archer knows his mind has already been made up. “You’re sure?” he asks.
“I’m sure,” Trip says. “This is something I have to do, Jon. I can’t let him go alone.”
“You realise what you’re saying, commander.” Maybe a part of Archer hopes the use of rank will spur something within Trip. “You’re throwing away-”
“Jon,” Trip cuts him off. “Please. You can’t talk me out of it.”
I can at least try, Archer doesn’t say out loud. It’s just unfair to the both of them. “Alright,” he says instead after a moment of tense silence. “I regret losing the best engineer I’ve ever had, but I understand why you have to do this, Trip.”
Trip visibly relaxes. “Thank you, Jon. You know this ain’t easy for me either.”
“It’s not for anyone.” The entire ship knows by now the situation. Except Malcolm. Maybe it’s cruel keeping the information from him, but Archer hasn’t had the heart to tell him yet. “Just one more thing. I haven’t actually…”
Trip’s eyes widen slightly. “You haven’t told him.”
Archer shakes his head.
Trip hesitates, then, “I can do it.”
“Trip-”
“There’s no one better it can come from.” Trip offers a weak, insincere smile.
And Archer has to admit, he’s right.
So Trip is the one to break the news to Malcolm. And Trip is the one to hold him as he cries.
Trip finds Malcolm in the armoury one evening. He’s sitting on the floor with a phase pistol taken apart in his shaking hands, but his concentration isn’t on the weapon. He’s gulping in deep breaths, too fast, and he’s starting to hyperventilate.
“Malcolm! Jesus…” Trip skids to his knees next to him. He digs around for a hypospray, but he doesn’t have one on his person. Fuck. “Okay, just… just breathe, Malcolm.”
Malcolm looks at him, eyes narrowed slightly.
“Yeah, that’s probably not…” Trip clears his throat. “C’mon, you can do it. Slowly. In through your nose, out through your mouth. That’s it.”
Eventually, Malcolm manages to get himself back under control. The phase pistol drops to the ground in a clatter of its various parts, and Malcolm hangs his head. He mutters something Trip can’t make out.
“What’s that?”
“I said I’m sorry,” Malcolm says. His voice is hoarse. He looks dejectedly at the phase pistol. “I was trying to… to prove myself, I suppose.”
“Prove yourself to who?” Trip asks.
“…I’m not sure.” Malcolm fidgets with the power cell. “Myself, maybe. I can still do things. Maybe not what I used to be, but I can be useful. I swear.” His voice cracks on the word useful, and so does Trip’s heart.
“Aw, Malcolm.” He wraps his arm around the man and pulls him close, and Malcolm goes willingly. “Of course you’re useful.”
“Then why am I being sent away?”
“That’s nothing to do with what you can and can’t do,” Trip tells him firmly. “It’s for your own safety. Just as Phlox told you, Malcolm.”
“Hang my safety,” Malcolm says.
“You don’t mean that.”
Malcolm looks up, tears in his eyes. “I almost wish I did.”
There’s no hesitation in Trip’s act to take Malcolm in his arms, and they hold each other on the floor in the dark, silent armoury.
Two months after moving back to Earth, Trip buys a house.
It’s a modest two-bedroom, nestled on a quiet street corner—perfect for them.
Even Malcolm thinks so. He smiles when he sees it for the first time, kisses Trip on the cheek and momentarily forgetting the box perched precariously on his lap.
They unpack, once again with Madeline’s help and some assistance from the Tucker family. They all fawn over Malcolm, much to the dark-haired man’s embarrassment, but Trip can see the hints of delight peering out from beneath the façade. A childhood deprived of such care has left him aching for it.
Once everyone has left, they spend the evening inside, together, alone.
Things almost seem normal.
They both miss the stars. It’s no secret. There are days when Malcolm, in a burst of pent-up frustration, asks why Trip bothered to come down with him, why he cares, why he left the life he loved so much to take care of an invalid.
Trip’s response is the same every time.
He takes Malcolm’s hands. “You’re not an invalid,” he assures the other man. “I came with you because I care about you, I love you. We are one, Malcolm. Where you go, I’ll follow.”
“I fear I’ll end up dragging you to hell one day,” Malcolm mutters, perhaps to himself.
“Then I’ll follow you down there too.” Trip plants a quick kiss on Malcolm’s forehead. “Come on. Let’s head to bed.”
But Trip wakes up mere hours later to find himself alone. He reaches out, fingers contacting only cold sheets, and he is immediately startled awake. Tugging on a coat, he makes his way downstairs and checks the living room where Malcolm has been known to nap if he can’t sleep in his own bed. But he’s not there. Trip checks the basement, the bathroom, but he’s nowhere to be found.
Lastly, he checks outside.
Malcolm is standing in the snow with only a thin jacket, his head tilted upwards as snowflakes gracefully fall around him. Trip watches as he reaches up, and more snowflakes gather and quickly melt in his palm.
His legs begin to shake. Trip rushes forward, barely catching him in time before Malcolm’s body fails him and he falls, still staring at the sky. “Why don’t we head back inside?” Trip suggests.
A small smile crosses Malcolm’s lips. “The stars look a lot smaller from here,” he says, in a voice so quiet Trip barely catches it.
Trip chokes on air. For a moment he has no response, but then he looks up too, at the faraway spots of light, and he can’t help but agree. “Yeah,” he says, “they do.”
He helps Malcolm back inside, wraps the shivering man in the softest blanket he can find and prepares some hot chocolate, but when he enters the living room Malcolm is fast asleep on the couch. Trip places the hot chocolate on the table and curls up next to him, one hand gently brushing through Malcolm’s soft dark hair.
The hot chocolate grows cold. Trip’s eyelids begin to droop, he leans his head on Malcolm’s shoulder.
Outside, as dawn breaks, the stars slowly wink out of sight.