The BLTS Archive - Misunderstandings & Mistakes
#1: Broken
by Marie Whi Mitshue (DriftingPetal@gundamwing.org)

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Archive: Entslash, yes.  Anyone else, ask first, please.

Disclaimer: Don't own'em.  Never did, never will.  Just borrowing
them, I promise.  Not written for profit, but for enjoyment. . . if
you can call this enjoyment.

Author's Notes: First-person narrative, from Reed's Point-Of-View. 
Angst.   OUT-OF-CHARACTER!!  I don't think Reed would do this; he's
too strong-willed, too much of a stalwart soul to take his own life.
I sat down to write and this is what came out!  (And I've read a few
stories here and there where my beloved Malcolm was more
Out-Of-Character than this.  Not that OOC is bad!)  Besides, people do
stupid, uncharacteristic things when they have their heart broken. 	
Go ahead, flame me!  I only laugh at the evidence of such
narrow-minded and small-hearted people!  Those who liked this and/or
wish to praise me, though. . . I humbly thank you.  Gratitude and good
karma go to you.

My *first* attempt at first person writing for ENTERPRISE.  This fic
probably sucks like a Hoover vacuum, but what are you supposed to do
when the muse munchkin in the back of your head takes over?

Thanks and Zen Hugs go to C-chan, my marvellous beta –who thought this
fic was. . . cute. . .  She's almost as strange as I am, yo!
//thoughts// *emphasis* (the more **, the greater the emphasis)

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I once thought I was loved.  He kissed me and held me and made love to
me.  At the time, I thought it was making love, that he truly loved me
as much as I love him.  I know now that it was nothing more to him
than sex.  To him it was simply a one-night stand, a night of
pleasure, with no strings attached.

Pity no one told me this.  I believed that he loved me, as I loved
him.

Then came morning, and awakening to find the space at my side empty. 
Nothing remained of him except the mess we had made of the sheets, the
imprint of his body in my bed, the smell of stale sex in the air. . .
and the first crack in my heart.

The second crack came when I met him in the corridor an hour later,
accidentally.  He waved hello absently, waiting for the ‘lift, eyes on
the bright screen of a PADD.  He asked me, in a friendly, distracted
voice, if I was having a good morning.  No explanation of leaving
before I woke, no guilt or shame in his voice for doing so, no
passion, no desire, no caring beyond the comradeship of shipmates.

Heart aching inside me, I answered coolly that my morning was just
fine.

The ‘lift doors opened and he strode inside with a flick of the
fingers at me that I suppose was a wave goodbye.

Crack. I felt my heart break a little more.

Later, I saw him going into the Captain's Mess with Archer.  And I
understood, completely and horribly.  I saw the way his sea-coloured
eyes clung to his captain and friend as they talked intently, saw the
heat and emotion in his eyes that I had mistaken for love the night
before.  I wanted him to look at me with that mixture of caring and
desire in his eyes, damn it!

Crack.  Cr-crack! I gasped silently, one hand pressed to my
breastbone, the pain in my chest a physical thing as I watched the man
I love disappear behind those doors, with the man *he* loved.

Crack. There goes my heart, shattered in a million sharp-edged pieces.
Everything inside me snapped, shattered and broke.  My world fell
apart into glittering, knife-edged shards.

I managed to walk out of the Mess Hall somewhat normally, but when I
made it to the safety of an empty corridor, I ran as if all of Hades'
demons were after me. I passed a couple of crewmen and Dr. Phlox at
one point, but I stopped for no one, heeded no voice, except the one
in my head.  The one that taunted and mocked me: //You were just a
cheap thrill, a roll in the hay, a shag to pass the night.  He loves
Archer; you saw the look on his face, in his eyes, when he was talking
to our beautiful, strong captain.  You mean nothing to him. 
*Nothing!*  You're such a stupid fool, how could you think that Trip
Tucker could *ever* love **you**?!//

I stumbled into my quarters, only realising I was crying so hard that
my whole body was shaking and jerking when I tried to lock my door,
and my fingers kept slipping on the keypad.

No matter.  I gave it up as a futile effort and staggered towards my
desk.  My mind was long gone by now, the only things in my head were
pain and anguish, agony and betrayal, hurt and fury.  I opened the
bottom drawer, reaching for the fifth of scotch inside – and drew out
my father's antique pistol instead.

I stared at the gleaming weapon in my hand as if I'd never seen it
before, the bright metal blurred through my tears.

I honestly don't remember planning anything.  But the next thing I
knew, I had slammed in a full clip, chambered a round and flicked off
the safety.  Then the muzzle was against my temple, although I wasn't
aware of lifting it there.  The metal was cold and hard against my
skin, somehow comforting and dreadful at the same time.  My finger
rested lightly on the trigger.

My chest heaved with sobs, and my whole body shook violently.  I'd
never let anyone so far past my guards and barriers as I had let Trip.
I had never trusted somebody as much as I had Trip.  I gave him my
friendship, my heart, my soul. . . and last night, I gave him my body.
Being who I was, a person so reserved, so private, giving of my body
wasn't something I could do easily.  Giving up my control, my
restraint, letting someone close, letting someone know me *so*
intimately, heart, mind, body and soul, was only something I could do
in love.

But he hadn't loved me.  He had used me, never even realising that
giving him my body was the ultimate gift of love from a man like me.

A gift he hadn't wanted, hadn't care about, hadn't even realised that
it was a gift.

I had given all I had, and was left with nothing but bitter, crumbling
ash.

I couldn't think, I couldn't breathe; all I could do was feel. He'd
never love me.  I was nothing to him, less than nothing.  Trip would
*never* love me.  Darkest emotion swamped me, and the world became dim
and empty around me, cold, black and endlessly lonely.

I was squeezing the trigger when the door to my quarters slid open
without even a chime.  Dr. Phlox's voice spoke my name worriedly.  I
jerked, the pistol discharging as I moved.  White-hot fire burned into
my skull and I crumpled, gun slipping from my hand, sliding across the
deck to bump against the toe of Phlox's boot.  I hit the deck after
it, the hot, wet rush streaming down my face and the agony searing
through my head confirming that I had indeed shot myself.  My head
bounced against the hard surface of the deck, adding fresh pain, and
the world hazed into nothing more than grey shapes.

Voices skittered and echoed around me, but I couldn't tell what they
were saying.  Phlox's, then Archer's, and cool hands were touching my
face.  I suppose the Denublian was trying to stop the bleeding.
Didn't the damn fool alien realise that if I shot myself I must want
to die?  *Did* I want to die?  I don't know. . . but the pain inside
my broken heart was far worse than the pain from my injury.

Then Trip's voice spoke.  My hearing snapped into focus and I could
make sense of words again.  My vision, however, remained a greyish
blur of shapes.

"Malcolm!  God, why the hell would you do this?"  His voice was rough
and anguished.

The sharp shards of my heart tore at my chest, more painful than a
thousand gunshot wounds, and I heard my voice speak, weak and broken
and bitter.

"Rather be dead. . . than watch you. . .  love Archer and not me. . .
"

"WHAT!!" Trip roared. 	Someone lifted me; the world swayed dizzily.
Sickbay, they were taking me to Sickbay, where Phlox would heal me,
sedate me and put me on Suicide Watch, and Archer would send me back
to Earth for psych evaluation, and court martial.

"God, Malcolm, why. . . oh, GOD, you think ‘cause I left this mornin'
before you woke that I. . . Malcolm –" Trip's voice spoke from
somewhere above me, full of pain and worry, distracting me.

I couldn't let them take me to Sickbay.  I was supposed to be dying
and ending this unendurable, smothering agony in my chest.  With my
last bit of strength I twisted away from the soothing hands and rolled
off the gurney, expecting to smash into the deck.

Strong, swift hands caught me, cradled me against someone's body.

"Damn it, Malcolm, stop it!  You're gonna *die* if we don't get ya to
Sickbay!" Trip's voice, shaking with emotions I couldn't even begin to
identify in my pain-stricken, hazy state, growled in my ear. It was he
that caught me.

"I. . .  gave you. . .  my body. . . " I sobbed, trying to  summon the
strength to wrench myself from his arms. ". . . Gave you my heart. . .
but all. . . you wanted was. . . a willing body. . . you. . . *used*
me!"   I gasped out. It burned like acid poured into my broken heart
to have him holding me and trying to save me when *he* was the reason
I was acting so irrational and senseless and un-Reed-like.  I was too
weak, and I could feel blood still pouring down my face from my
self-inflicted wound.  Obviously I hadn't put the bullet where I had
meant to; Phlox's entrance had made me move, sent the bullet on a
different trajectory that the one I'd intended.  That was the reason I
hadn't died yet.  But now the grey of my vision was slowly starting to
darken.  And my pain was fading into cold numbness.  About frigging
time.

"Malcolm, I . . . Oh, sweet Jesus, this is all *my* fault!"

Trip said brokenly.  His voice was getting fainter, like he was moving
away from me. . . but his arms were still solidly wound around me.

"Commander, we have to get him to Sickbay NOW!" Phlox's faint voice
ordered.

I was moving again.  But I didn't care anymore.  I couldn't feel much
of anything anymore, my body numb and lax, and my vision almost black.

Then I heard Trip speak again.

"Malcolm, I love you.  Do ya hear me, Mal, I FUCKING *LOVE* YOU!  I
was scared when I woke up, terrified you'd tell me our lovemakin'
meant nothing to you!  So I left.  It took everythin' in me to be so
distant this mornin' by the ‘lift when all I wanted to do was pull you
into my arms."

"Saw. . . you. . . looking at. . . the captain. . . you love.  . .
*him*. . . " I gasped out in a barely there whisper.

"Christ, Malcolm, I was talkin' about YOU!  Asking Jon what I should
do!  I swear, the truth is that I.  LOVE.  YOU!"  Trip sobbed.

Dread, realisation, horror, shock, and disbelief shot through me. So
stupid.  I was so horribly, fucking stupid.

"Oh. . . " I breathed.

And then darkness crashed down on me like the end of the world.

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The End