The BLTS Archive - Cold Comfort: D series: #6: Dissonance by Kalita Kasar (kalitafic@hotmail.com) --- Beta: None really, but Haggy has seen it. All mistakes must be taken out and shot before return to the author for the bounty. Special Credit/Thanks: To the wonderful MJ who helped me come up with the title for this story. You Rock MJ! Spoilers: Anomaly Warnings: angst-O-rama Disclaimer: Well of course they don't *belong* to me, but they keep following me home. No money changes hands, no infringements are intended. Original plot ideas and characters not appearing in the series are mine and paramount can't have them, so there! Archive permissions: EntSTcommunity/warp 5 Tim Rueben, and the Author's personal website. Anyone else, ask first. Authors Note: Dissonance: Music. A combination of tones contextually considered to suggest unrelieved tension and require resolution. --- Trip --- I haven't slept since the night that I spent in Malcolm's cabin. I can't sleep. The dreams come when I do, and there's no way I'm gonna go see T'Pol again. The after-effects of her 'treatment' last time were enough to put me off wanting to do that again anytime soon. I'm kidding myself that I can survive on caffeine and adrenaline. But bein' awake isn't any better than bein' asleep. When I sleep, Lizzie haunts me. When I'm awake, Malcolm's eyes haunt me. And we're still no closer to findin' the Xindi. If we could find them, and do what we were sent out here to do, I know Lizzie would let me rest. I could deal with all the rest of it then. I could sleep, and that would make a big difference. Until then...I need more coffee, and I'm gonna ask Phlox for more drugs. We already lost one man on this wild goose chase. Fuller went down in a fight with Osaarian pirates who made off with half the ship's inventory. I'm sitting in the mess hall tryin' to figure out how to compensate for spatial gradients that just won't come right out here, when Malcolm comes in. He asks me how I'm coming with rewriting the laws of physics. Now *that's* interestin' I thought I had that conversation with the Cap'n. He joins me at my table, uninvited, and I keep my eyes fixed on my work. Here it comes. He's asking me about how much rest I'm getting. Now's my chance to tell him about T'Pol; I look at him, lick my lips. "T'Pol's been helpin' me, showin me how to stimulate my neural nodes." There, I said it and he's sittin' there lookin at me over the top of his mug of tea with eyebrows raised. I wait for the explosion. "It's not what you're thinkin'," I tell him. A small shake of his head. "Oh, I wasn't thinking anything." I decide to change the subject and move onto talk of weapons. That's always a good distraction with Malcolm. --- Malcolm --- He looks so tired and I can see the frustration in his expression as he pores over the array of pads on his table. There's a coffee mug in front of him, half full of cold coffee, but no evidence that he has eaten anything. We make small talk about engines and weapons. I'm down one staff-member after the last run in with the Osaarians. It's a loss that will be sorely felt. Crewman Fuller was the nearest thing to an expert where the Photonic Torpedoes are concerned. He'd made them something of a pet project; I'd allowed him to read and study up on them to his heart's content. Now he's gone. Trip's cynicism on the matter surprises me. It's not like him to be so dismissive...or it never used to be. He says that our mission is looking more like a one way ticket all the time, and that's about as much as I can take from him. "You're the one who urged me to have a little hope, not so long ago," I say. His head snaps up and he stares at me in silence for several seconds. "Well, I was wrong. I'm not afraid to admit it." There's that pain in his eyes again -- just for an instant -- before he smothers it and looks away. "There's always hope, Trip!" I set my empty mug down on the table, willing him to look at me. "We have nothing if we lose that!" "Then I guess, I got a whole lotta nothin'," he mutters and I grit my teeth, pushing to my feet. "You're tired," I tell him. "When was the last time you had a decent meal? You *really* ought to try to sleep." It's the second time I've told him that in the last 5 minutes. "Why don't you go see T'Pol? I'm sure she knows what she's doing; you need help." He's on his feet and leaning across the table in an instant. "Who the hell died and left *you* in charge, Malcolm?" He practically snarls. "I'm getting' sick of you tryin' to push me around! Ever since this whole thing with the Xindi started you've been after me! Do this. Do that, eat better get some rest. Why don't you just back the hell off?" He scoops up the padds from the table and stalks towards the doors. "Oh right, fine! Just run away again!" I follow him, my temper flaring. "I told ya, ya have no right and no business tellin' me how to live my life!" He steps through the doors and I stay right on his tail. "I beg to differ! Since we *are* engaged to be married, I consider it not only my *right* but my *duty* to see that you take better care of yourself. It's called love, Trip. Something you appear to have difficulty demonstrating of late!" The moment the words are spoken, I wish I could pull them back out of the air and swallow them. He halts in his tracks, not looking at me and I swallow hard. "I'm sorry, Trip. I didn't mean that the way that it sounded. "Yeah you did." His voice is low and rough. "You meant it, and you had a right to say it..." He still won't look at me. "I...I'm sorry. For everythin'," he sighs and then he starts to walk again. "I think...I think I had better get back to work." He leaves and I watch for a moment, longing to go after him, pull him into my arms and tell him everything will be all right. I would...if I was sure that it would be. As he disappears around a bend in the corridor I shake my head and turn in the opposite direction. --- Malcolm --- It was the captain who told me to try getting Trip to rest. He came to the armory; ostensibly to help me modify the guidance systems for the torpedoes, but I knew the minute he arrived that there was more to it than just the weapons. He wasted no time getting to the point. As we worked side by side at one of the consoles, Archer glanced over his shoulder to make sure we were alone, and then he looked into my eyes. "How are things with you and Trip?" "Sir?" "I know you two have had it rough the last couple of months. How are things?" Averting my eyes, I heard the captain make a small sound of sympathy in his throat, before he spoke. "Trip's running himself ragged, Malcolm." I glanced at him, but didn't speak, pretending to be absorbed in data feeds. "He can't last much longer the way he's going," the captain went on. "Maybe you should try talking to him he'll listen to you." "I don't think so, Captain." I shook my head, making a few more adjustments to the alignments. "I've *tried* to talk to him. He pushes me away he...avoids my company and if I *do* try to express my concerns he..." "I'm worried about him," Archer said. "He hasn't stopped to rest since I was in engineering earlier. I know I told him to make the weapons a priority, he followed my orders, but he's been holed up in the mess hall since then, 'rewriting the laws of physics.'" He turned to face me. "Malcolm, no one else can reach him." So I went and found him in the mess hall and the outcome was exactly as I'd predicted it would be. There may have been a time, once, when I could reach him; even if no-one else could, but that time is obviously past. He has shut himself away, deep inside himself somewhere and he won't let anyone in. It's ironic, really. *I'm* supposed to be the one who lives inside a self-made prison. Tucker tore down the walls of my fortress -- and used the rubble to build one of his own. I can't reach him anymore. I don't think that anyone can. --- Trip --- It was a stupid mistake and I know it only happened because I'm so tired. Thank God it was only me who got hurt. I'm sure I depolarized those injectors. I wouldn't have touched them otherwise...would I? I don't know anymore. I can't think straight. I can't concentrate on anything. God, if I could just sleep. I asked Phlox for more of those injections when I went to have him look at my hand. He refused, told me that I should continue the treatments with T'Pol. I don't want to, but in light of the alternative he offered... Even so, I'm getting desperate enough to seriously consider those leeches or whatever they were. And then there's Malcolm...He's right when he says I have trouble demonstrating love anymore. I can't feel for him anymore the way I used to. I can't feel for anyone. It's like someone threw a dampening field around my emotions and there's nothing can get through but anger and hate. I don't like it being this way, but I don't know how to change it. Except by getting the people who did this and makin' them pay. That's the only thing I think can break through that numbness and let me come alive again...at least I hope it will. We got the injectors back, and the anti-matter storage pods. I should be grateful for small miracles, but there's an atmosphere hangin' over the ship that makes us all uneasy. I don't know all the details; I'm too tired to listen to the gossip that closely, but they're whisperin' somethin' about torture... --- Malcolm --- Madness...that's what this is. No other word for it. I'll admit I didn't always admire Captain Archer's command style; I've criticized him to his face, when he asked for my opinion...but what I witnessed today was...sickening, horrific. This is not the same captain that I've known for almost two years. I couldn't credit the evidence of my own eyes, when I found him peering through the porthole on that airlock, watching the Osaarian prisoner gasp for air. There was no reasoning with him. There was no reason *in* him in those moments. When he let the prisoner out and ordered us to take him back to the brig I was relieved...but I didn't anticipate what was to come. The Osaarian had regained some of his composure and almost all his bravado by the time we reached the brig, and when the captain arrived the man became downright truculent. Every one of Captain Archer's questions was met with jeering responses until his rather limited patience ran out. I thought he was going to drag the man back to the airlock...perhaps that would have been preferable to what *did* happen. Later on the bridge, T'Pol asked if the prisoner was cooperative. Only I understood the full implications when the captain replied: "Eventually." Madness...in his eyes, and in his actions. I feel responsible -- though *I* never raised a hand to the man...no...I just stood idly by and watched. I feel sick. I feel...alone and there's no-one I can talk to about this. God, Trip...I need you so badly. --- Trip --- I'm lying in my quarters, staring out at the stars. I hold my harmonica in my hand, I tried to play it, but got blowin' the blues and it wasn't helping any. It's only early and it's movie night if my mind is countin the days straight anymore. I used to love movie night, never missed one. I don't go now though. It's not like I begrudge the others goin' if they want. I just can't do it myself. I can't sit there and listen to them laughing at the comedies or watch them holdin' their breath during the action and drama flicks. I can't allow mysealf to join in on that. I *did* try a couple of times early on, but...it was just empty. The last time I went, they showed some movie about a war...I suppose it was meant to boost morale or somethin' the Earth guys versus the aliens and the Earth guys won. 'Bout five minutes in, I had to bolt out of the mess hall. I only just made it to my cabin before I was real sick. Haven't been back since. The next day, Rostov and a few of the others were comparin' notes on the movie in engineerin and I just about tore a couple of their heads off. I regret that, but I haven't found the right time to make it right with 'em. There's a lot of things I regret -- a lot of things I haven't had time to make right. Some I never will have time to make right. I feel tears prickle behind my eyelids and I screw my eyes tight shut. I'm not gonna do that. If I let those tears fall, they'll never stop an' I don't have time for gettin' all soft now. --- Malcolm --- I'm sitting here next to Travis, with Hoshi seated on my left, staring blankly at the movie screen. I don't know what the film is about. There are a lot of explosions, but I'm not following the storyline and I don't even know the names of the characters. I don't know why I even bothered to come tonight. Movie night used to be a shared experience for Trip and I. He was always more excited about it than I, but I would come along because it made him happy, and that was one thing I loved to do -- make Trip happy. Trip hasn't been to a movie night in at least 8 weeks, perhaps longer, not since the night they showed something called Independence Day. He ran out of here that night, and I couldn't get him to open his door. That was the last movie he agreed to attend. In fact, that was really the last activity we participated in together. I close my eyes in the darkness against the tears that threaten to spill over. At my side, Travis stirs, lays a comforting hand on my forearm. "You wanna go?" he whispers and I nod mutely. We leave as quickly and quietly as possible. Hoshi offers to come along but I shake my head. "It's all right, luv. You enjoy the film, I'll be fine." Travis walks back to my cabin with me, and I invite him in. He sits on my bed and I make tea, more as a way to keep my hands busy than because I really want any. The tea made, I hand a mug to Travis, and take mine with me to the view-port. I stare out at the stars and wonder if Trip is at least sleeping. Travis doesn't speak, and I appreciate his friendly silence. I didn't want to be alone, but I don't feel ready to talk yet, either. We're quiet together for a long time. "What am I going to do?" I whisper the words after a long period of just staring into space. I'm not really expecting an answer, and Travis doesn't try to provide one. I glance at him, let my lips show a hint of a smile in appreciation. Turning away from the port, I glance around my cabin. There are hints of Trip everywhere. A shirt of his folded neatly on the shelf above my bed, a few of his comic books; a photograph of myself that he took, so I could send a copy to Madeline -- I'm leaning against a Torpedo bracket, smiling, and my eyes are full of love for the one behind the camera. Staring at it, I swallow hard. Trip is the only person who ever managed to catch any real light in my eyes for a photograph. Madeline said it was the best picture of me she has ever seen. "Oh god..." I whisper brokenly and sink down on a chair. Travis moves to my side instantly and, to my great horror, I find myself leaning on his shoulder, crying like a child. "I...can't do this...anymore." Travis holds me in his arms, whispering to me, I can't even hear what he's saying above my own wretched sobbing. I can't live like this forever. I can't keep waiting for him to let me back in... The storm lasts a few minutes, but eventually I manage to calm myself. I know what I need to do. I get up and move around my cabin, gathering up Trip's belongings. --- Trip --- The sound of the door-chime startles me out of my glum musings and I glance at the clock beside my bed. 22:00, the movie must be finished. I get up, slowly and put my harmonica on the small table beside my bed, making my way over to the door. I press the release and the door slides open. Malcolm stands in the hallway, holding a small bundle of stuff in his arms. He doesn't smile. His eyes have no light in them anymore. It crosses my mind, that I'm responsible for that. I stare at him in silence. The same silence surrounds Malcolm as he holds out the bundle to me -- a shirt, some comic books, a framed photograph of Malcolm. I look at them, and then raise my eyes to his face. "Malcolm?" He shakes his head slightly, his jaw works, but he doesn't speak. I realize, looking at him, that he's been cryin'. He shakes the bundle in a 'take it' gesture, but he still says nothin' I reach out, touch the things with my fingertips. I'm afraid to take them, but I can't form any words. He steps forward, shoves the stuff into my arms and then he executes a military about-face and marches away down the corridor. He's gone... I stumble backwards, the door closes and a moment later, the things hit the floor, falling from my slackened grasp as I sink to my knees, gasping for breath. Malcolm is leavin' me? He's leavin' me! Something inside me screams at me to go after him, make it right...but I can't find the strength to get to my feet. I stay where I am, starin' at the door in silence. I never thought I could feel pain again after hearin' that Lizzie died...til now. --- End