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Malcolm Reed woke with a start, sitting bolt upright in his bunk, shivering from a frozen nightmare he knew no longer existed. Oh but it had been so real. Just as real as when he was huddled against Commander Tucker’s side, passing a nearly empty bottle of bourbon back and forth, waiting for Death to finally come claim their lives. Or for Enterprise to miraculously appear and rescue them. Whichever happened first. Enterprise had, thankfully, arrived just in the nick of time.
He didn’t remember the rescue. Didn’t remember the damaged and drifting shuttlepod being pulled into the safety of the launch bay. And he certainly had no memory of being extracted from Tucker’s side. The last thing he remembered, he and Trip had put their blankets together and huddled against one another, Malcolm’s arms wrapped around Trip’s lithe waist while Trip’s had been secured around his shoulders. Anything to try and keep warm, even just a little bit. He had pressed his face to the hollow of Trip’s neck, and had vague memories of feeling warm breath dance across his cheek and ear as Trip tried to bury his own face in Malcolm’s hair.
The next thing he knew, he had been warm. Well, warmer, at least. Warmer and lying on his back, the sounds of sickbay surrounding him. He thought it was just another dream at first. It wasn’t until Sub-Commander T’Pol had quirked her brow at him and uttered simply, “Goodnight, Lieutenant,” and walked away that he knew they’d been rescued. That they were alive. They’d survived and everything would be okay.
Except, things weren’t okay. Not really, at least. Malcolm still had bouts of random shivers while sitting at his station, even three days later. The air would suddenly turn frigid and he’d swear he could see his breath in front of him again. And then there were the nightmares. Horrible dreams of Trip crawling into the airlock and sealing himself in. Dying a frozen, breathless death, while Malcolm was forced to go on living, screaming and beating at the airlock door until his hands bled. Nightmares of finally admitting to himself, and to Trip, that his feelings for the Southern had gone beyond just that of simple friendship, only for his heart to be broken by Trip’s disgust and scorn; followed closely by Malcolm crawling into the airlock to die alone and ashamed. Or the worse one, finding out Trip returned his affections, only for them to die together, curled up in each other's arms, without the chance to let their feelings grow and take flight.
This nightmare hadn’t been that one. It had actually been worse than the others. He’d been on the shuttlepod, Trip in his arms. Frozen solid. His lips blue and skin pale white. He’d dreamt that Trip had perished in his embrace. That he’d been left to hold the frozen body, weeping into his hair, the tears turning to ice on his cheeks until he’d picked the phase pistol up, set it to Kill , pressed it to his temple and…
Well, he didn’t need to see the end of the nightmare to know what would have happened next.
Crawling off the bed, and with his thin blanket wrapped around his shoulders, Malcolm shuffled from his room. What he needed right then was a good, hot cup of tea, and maybe a cup of soup if he could find one. Anything warm to eat and drink to keep the chill his body insisted had crept in on him away.
The ship was quiet and dim as he made his way into the mess. Gamma shift would be getting done soon, and Alpha shift would be waking to start their day presently. Malcolm thanked his lucky stars that he was off duty for the day. He’d be able to get his snacks, return to his room, and sit huddled on his bed for the rest of the day with no one being the wiser.
To his left, a fierce sniffle broke through the silence, followed by a yawn and rather pathetic sounding groan. He turned, startled to find Trip leaning against the wall next to the drink dispenser, forehead pressed to the cool, smooth surface. His own blanket hung half off one shoulder, and a tray dangled from a limp grasp at his side.
He looked miserable.
He looked sick.
Malcolm’s heart twisted in his chest. He recalled, not all that terribly long ago, when he’d been suffering through a cold. How Trip had found him curled up on a sofa in the observation lounge, and decided to take it upon himself to guide Malcolm back to his room and then proceed to bring him tea and soup and a new box of tissues from the Quartermaster, even another blanket to help keep him warm. That was even before the shuttlepod incident. Before Malcolm had really given much thought to the fact that anyone would be willing to truly befriend him, take care of him when he wasn’t feeling well. The first time he realized that Trip really had become his friend.
His own search for warmth forgotten, he moved to step up beside Trip, gently taking the tray from his hand.
“Commander, you look like Hell.”
Trip rolled his head against the wall, turning it so that he could grace Malcolm with a wide-eyed, befuddled stare. One that only served to make Malcolm’s heart twist all the more. Those clear summer sky eyes that shone so brightly with laughter and mischief, were clouded and dull. Red tinted the tip of Trip’s snub nose, and those lips that Malcolm had recently begun to wonder if they were as soft as they appeared, were parted and slightly chapped.
Groaning, Trip rolled his head back down, sniffled thickly, and nodded with another groan. Malcolm watched as Trip worked his jaw, forced a yawn, and worked his jaw again before answering.
“Ah feel like Hell. Like a frozen Hell.”
Malcolm tutted softly. He gently readjusted the blanket on Trip’s shoulders and covered it with his own body-warmed one just for good measure. However Trip had managed to get sick, it was Malcolm’s turn to return the favor.
“You wait here,” he murmured, resting a gentle hand to Trip’s back. “What were you wanting to get?”
“Wanted somethin’ warm. ‘M so damned cold...an’ mah nose is stuffed...an’ mah ears are stuffed...mah throat hurts...mah body hurts…”
“Shh. Alright. Wait here.”
He gave a small, soothing rub to Trip’s back before stepping away. So Charles “Trip” Tucker III had gone and caught himself a cold. Phlox had warned them that it could happen. Such prolonged exposure to extreme cold, it was bound to wreck havoc on their immune systems.
With the tray returned to the stack, Malcolm cautiously made his way into the galley, relieved to find Chef’s morning crew already in there working. It took a bit of coaxing, perhaps even a bit of bribing -- though Malcolm would deny that to his dying day -- before he could manage to convince them to make a big pot of chicken noodle soup for himself and Trip. Complete with chunks of chicken, carrots, celery. All the things that a true, homemade, chicken noodle soup contained.
That underway, and with the promise of having two bowls delivered to Trip’s room just as soon as it was ready, Malcolm returned to the main room and stepped up beside his friend again. Trip hadn’t moved an inch from where Malcolm had left him.
“Soup should be ready in a little while.” He rested his hand on Trip’s shoulder again, squeezing it gently. “What say we get you back into bed, hm? With a nice cup of hot tea to tide you over?”
“Gonna put honey in it?”
“Do you want honey in it? It’ll soothe your throat more.”
Trip stood silent for a moment before finally nodding. With a nod of his own, Malcolm gave the order to the drink dispenser, and, with two hot cups of tea in hand, gently nudged against Trip to get his attention.
“You’re going to have to give up the wall, Trip. Let’s get you back to bed.”
Trip’s quarters weren’t terribly far from the mess hall, thankfully. Malcolm had the feeling Trip probably would have slumped against the wall and curled up on the floor if they’d had to venture much further than down a corridor. Even so, by the time they were behind closed doors, Trip dropped heavily to his bed and simply shoved his face into his pillow.
Malcolm set his cup of tea on the desk and moved to sit at Trip’s hip on the bed. “Here, sit up and drink this. Have you been to Phlox, yet?”
As if it took every ounce of energy Trip had in him to follow the orders, the engineer slouched against the wall, reached for the cup, and nodded. “Gave me a hypo, but said ah still just needed plenty’a bed rest.”
“Mm, yes. That’s what he’d told me, too.”
For a long moment, the pair simply sat there, Trip drinking his tea and Malcolm watching him fondly. Trip’s blond hair was matted down on one side, his short bangs stuck straight up from where he’d smashed his face into his pillow. With his eyes closed and head tilted back against the wall, all snuggled into his blankets, the grown man looked ever so much like a child. He’d always had a boyish, childish face and charm about him, that Malcolm was infinitely envious of, but seeing him now, it was so much more.
So much so, that Malcolm found himself ever so gently smoothing his hand down Trip’s hair in slow, soothing strokes. Trip sighed, his hands wrapped loosely around the cup in his lap, and leaned his head into the touch. Such an innocent motion, but one that tugged all the harder at Malcolm’s chest. He shifted on the bed, scooting just a bit closer, and let his hand trail down from Trip’s hair to brush the backs of his knuckles across a cooled, stubbled cheek.
“You need to drink your tea while it’s still hot,” he murmured, eyes never straying from Trip’s face. “There’s chicken noodle soup on the way, the real kind, mind you. Not the resequenced stuff, or from a can,” it had cost Malcolm a week’s worth of shore leave time to get it, at that, “but I’d like you to be finished with your tea before it gets here.”
Trip hummed absently and nodded. He pulled a couple more long, slow sips from the cup before setting it back down in his lap and leaning his cheek against Malcolm’s hand once more. The way he nuzzled against Malcolm’s knuckles sent shivers of a new kind down his spine.
“Yer warm. How come yer warm, an’ ah’m not?”
The quiet question startled a huff of a laugh from Malcolm, and he couldn’t help smile. “I’m really not that warm. You’re just sick.” He paused, worried at his bottom lip, and shifted until he was sitting fully on the bed, his side pressed to Trip’s. “Truthfully, I’m feeling rather chilled myself. Have since we woke up in sickbay.”
Malcolm was suddenly met with concerned blue eyes, and an expression that he had long ago dubbed Trip’s “Kicked Puppy” look. Pale brown eyebrows lifted just slightly, causing the smallest of furrows to form between them, while his damnable pink lips once again parted in a faint, subtle pout. It was a look Malcolm had become all too familiar with, and in equal parts found it irresistible and confounding.
“Why’d you give me yer blanket if yer cold? An’ how come yer not drinkin’ yer own tea, then? Ah don’t want you gettin’ sick again, too!”
Tutting and shaking his head, Malcolm smoothed down Trip’s hair again absently. “You’re sick now. If I happen to get sick later, then I shall begrudgingly march myself down to sickbay, let Phlox poke my neck with a hypospray, and carry on. It’s fine, Trip. Really.”
The fact that Trip didn’t fully believe him was evident in his eyes, but the engineer remained quiet. Finally, their gazes broke, and Trip turned to finish off the rest of his tea while Malcolm gently, absently, rubbed the aches away in Trip’s neck. He’d never been much for physical displays of affection, or for physical touch that wasn’t for self-defense for that matter, but with Trip it came naturally. Especially after their shared near death experience.
When Trip leaned into the touch more, Malcolm found his courage boosted. He nudged his knee to Trip’s thigh. “Here, turn towards me.”
Without a question or protest, Trip turned so his back was to Malcolm and sighed the moment Malcolm began kneading the tense muscles stretched taut across his shoulders. How many times had Malcolm longed for someone to do this very thing for him when he hadn’t felt well? How long had he gone without restful sleep while sick because his entire being hurt so bad he couldn’t get comfortable? If he could ease even a fraction of Trip’s discomfort, enough for him to be able to get some rest, then he’d be happy.
It didn’t take long before Trip’s body began to sag into Malcolm’s, his head bobbing gently in the way that signaled he was falling asleep.
“Trip?” He murmured.
A quiet hum of acknowledgment answered him a long moment later. Though it was clear Trip hadn’t fully heard him. Not consciously, at least. Smiling, Malcolm dared to hug himself to Trip’s back, just long enough to share some warmth, before pulling back.
“Lie down, Love. Get some rest.” The endearment slipped out without his knowing about it, and fell on deaf -- or rather, as Trip had said earlier, stuffed -- ears. Even so, Trip nodded and moved sluggishly to stretch out on his bunk, tugging the blankets around himself all the more as he rolled to face the bulkhead.
His hand resting on Trip’s shoulder, Malcolm tilted his head, watching for a moment before he chuckled softly.
“If y’want, I can keep ya company for a while.”
Trip’s head snapped around at those words. Not so much the words, but the mimicked Southern accent that had been more than just a little too close to his own for comfort. Slack-jawed, he stared at Malcolm.
“You...did you j’st…?”
Warmth crept up Malcolm’s neck and cheeks, and he shifted awkwardly on the bed, suddenly very aware of the fact Trip had never heard his mimicry of other people’s voices and accents. When he didn’t look up, or acknowledge Trip’s trailed off question, he felt the bed move and a hand fall to rest on his knee.
When he met Trip’s gaze, he found kindness and affection there that warmed him better than any cup of tea, soup, or blanket ever could. Perhaps, he thought, his more than friendly feelings towards Trip were returned after all?
“Ah don’t wanna be a bother,” answered Trip, parroting Malcolm’s own words back at him, as Malcolm had just done to him. “Sides, ah don’t want you gettin’ sick again.”
A half smile in place, Malcolm toed his shoes off and moved to get settled on the bed behind Trip. “Budge up. And let me have some blankets, if you don’t mind?”
Grinning, Trip scooted on the bed to make room, and offered the blankets up to Malcolm to arrange however he wanted them. Malcolm’s heart thudded wildly in his chest as he spooned up behind Trip, settled the blankets over them, and cautiously wrapped his arm around Trip’s middle. At the answering sigh and body pressing back against his, Malcolm smiled all the more and pressed his face between Trip’s shoulders.
“Besides,” he whispered after a moment, as the warmth of their shared body heat began to seep in around him, “I believe someone told me once, that sometimes having someone risk their own well being to help you feel better is often the best medicine in the world.”
Long, calloused fingers twined with his own, pulling Malcolm all the closer as their clasped hands came to rest on Trip’s chest.
“Mm...who told’ja that?”
Malcolm smiled into Trip’s back, letting his eyes fall shut. “Oh, just a friend.”
“ Just a friend?”
Biting his lip, Malcolm turned his head to rest his cheek flush to Trip’s back. Warmth and butterflies raced through him. All thoughts of frozen shuttlepods and near death experiences fled his mind as his heart danced wildly in his chest.
“Well...he might be just a bit more than just a friend.”
Trip hummed softly, and when he spoke, his voice was barely more than a sleepy murmur. “Mm...I’d like that…”
“Me too…” breathed Malcolm.
He’d have to wake and move once a stewart arrived with their bowls of soup, but he’d deal with that later. Right that moment he was warm. For the first time since Trip lowered the temperature on the shuttle so that they could have more oxygen for a few hours more, Malcolm was warm and snuggled into the man he’d slowly been falling in love with. The man who shared his feelings, apparently.
Closing his eyes, Malcolm felt himself drift into a peaceful sleep.
This time, his dreams were far more pleasant and blissfully warm.