Chapter Text
Lieutenant Reed stares incredulously into the drink he’s been handed, perfectly aware of the two and a half pairs of eyes trained on him. “Um…” he fumbles for something to say, something that at least sounds diplomatic. No need to ruin a perfectly good first contact, after all. “I apologize, Your Lady Grace, but I don’t drink on duty.”
A moment of silence passes. Then another. Malcolm wonders if his translator broke down.
Finally, a single eye blinks in comprehension and the lopsided smile on the Lady’s pale face grows. “Oh, dear me, yes, of course!” A three-fingered hand shoots out and snatches the drink from Malcolm’s hand. “Of course, of course! Do forgive me, Lieutenant, it completely flew my mind that Warriors are forbidden to become intoxicated while standing guard. Ah, please! We have plenty of non-alcoholic drinks to choose from as well.”
A little bit taken back by the Lady’s “realization”, Malcolm smiles nervously. “Er, no thanks.”
“But you must!” exclaims one of the Lady’s followers. His vibrant purple eyes droop in a sign of obvious disappointment. “This is a celebration, Lieutenant. You must join us!”
Oh, bloody hell. Malcolm opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again, at a loss for words. Three faces stare expectantly up at him, which is when Commander Tucker swoops in to save his ass from the torture of remaining diplomatic.
“There ya are, Lieutenant!” The Southerner drapes an arm across Malcolm’s shoulders and gives him a small shake. “Lost ya in the crowd there. C’mon, Cap’n Archer wants you for somethin’.” Addressing the Lady and her followers, Trip gives a polite bow and says, “I’m sorry fer stealin’ the Lieutenant away from ya, Your Lady Grace. Official matters.”
“I understand, Commander,” says the Lady, obviously already under the influence of the Tucker Charm.
Malcolm breathes a sigh of relief as he’s led away from the pestering trio. Province leader or not, Lady Grenan could learn a bit about personal space. “Thanks, Commander.”
“Anytime, Malcolm.” Trip lets go of the Lieutenant and grins. “You looked like you needed some resucin’.”
“My knight in shining armour,” says Malcolm sarcastically. “Now, should I assume what you said about the Captain was real, or…?”
“I made the entire thing up if that’s what yer askin’. Thought things would go smoother if I had a legitimate excuse.”
Malcolm laughs. “Smart. Hey, are these plastic or food?” He holds up a rough, round lump of something a brilliant yet impossible shade of blue. Trip picks another one off the plate, studies it, then pops it in his mouth.
“Food,” he announces.
“Trip, you can’t just do that!” Malcolm exclaims. “What if it’s been poisoned? We should probably scan these-”
“Would you calm down, Malcolm?” Trip snatches the scanner out of Malcolm’s hand and pockets it. “Y’could be seen as rude scannin’ their food like that. ‘sides, they’re not out ta poison us. I feel fine. Now, open up.”
Without thinking, Malcom obliges.
The odd blue lump melts almost immediately on his tongue. It tastes sweet, kind of tangy too.
“There.” Trip’s voice is low and, despite the constant boom of music and overlapping chatter, it might as well be the only sound in the room. “Does that taste anythin’ like poison, Lieutenant?”
“No,” Malcolm mutters. It’s then that he realizes Trip’s fingertip still lingers on his bottom lip, the touch sending explosions through his body and fire erupting across his cheeks.
The two men break contact immediately. “Uh, told ya,” Trip remarks quickly, smugly. “Perfectly fine.”
Malcolm refuses to met Trip’s eyes, blush not fading in the slightest, as he stammers, “I still think standard protocol should-”
“Fer cryin’ out loud, Malcolm, if anyone was gonna do somethin’ nefarious they woulda done it already. These people – their only danger to use is potential suffocation from lack of personal space.” This earns a snort from Malcolm. “You were even allowed yer weapon in here, plus two security men. I thought you’d be chill.”
“As chief tactical officer,” Malcolm retorts, “I can’t afford to be chill. ”
“Right. Just icy as hell,” Trip quips dryly.
Malcolm bristles, and only just manages to keep his voice level as he says, “feel free to enjoy yourself, Commander, but I still have a job to do.”
Trip’s face burns red. “Fine. But next time yer bein’ hounded by some government lady an’ her minions, don’t expect me to come an’ save ya.” He storms off with a huff, disappearing among the crowd.
Guilt quickly replacing the anger, Malcolm’s face falls, and he shuffles over to the nearest banquet table, fingers gripping the edge to keep himself balanced. The room sways around him, the sheer number of people beginning to feel suffocating.
Deep breaths. Damn, when did that become difficult? C’mon, Reed, concentrate. In, out. In, out. You’ve been doing this all your life. In, out.
Someone lays their hand on his arm. Though the touch is gentle, Malcolm starts, backing up further into the table. He blinks rapidly, and the smudge of light and colour soon morphs into one very concerned Doctor Phlox.
“Lieutenant?”
Malcolm grumbles in response. His tongue is too heavy for words.
“Lieutenant, are you alright?”
Do I look alright? He wants to say. I’m having an allergy attack.
“My scans say you may be reacting to something you’ve ingested,” the doctor says, unknowingly echoing Malcolm’s thoughts. “Come with me. We’ll fine a nice, quieter place to sit down and I’ll administer an antihistamine.”
Malcolm lets himself be lead through the blinding, colourful assortment of lights. What else can he do? His face has begun to swell, affecting his speech and sight. He lowers his head self-consciously and hopes no one pays him any mind.
“By Aldri, what's happened to you, warrior?”
Hopes are dashed. That voice is easily recognizable as Minister Pir, one of the Lady’s followers who was bugging him earlier.
“The Lieutenant is having a rather unfortunate reaction to something he has eaten,” Phlox answers plainly. He lowers Malcolm into a seat, less comfortable than the ones at the banquet table so it must be one of the rows on the far side of the room.
He hears a bag unzipped, soon followed by the shink of a hypospray being capped, then something cool presses into the side of his neck.
The effect is instantaneous. Malcolm draws in a single, gasping breath, relieved to finally taste that sweet oxygen again. He slouches backwards despite the mental berating in his mind for his posture. He can feel his lungs expanding and deflating, his throat slowly opening to allow for better airflow. It will take a few minutes for the swelling to go down, though. In the meantime, he’ll just sit and listen.
“A reaction to something he has eaten?” Minister Upola is echoing, tone laced with confusion. “Has he been poisoned?”
“Oh, no, don’t worry,” Phlox responds with a chuckle. “Lieutenant Reed suffers from allergies to various compounds found in, oh, all sorts of things! Food, nature, animals.”
“A–alair-gees?” Pir repeats uncertainly.
“Pardon my followers, doctor,” The Lady finally steps in. “We’ve never heard of this… ‘alair-gees’ before. What is it? Is it harmful?”
The swelling has reduced significantly, allowing Malcolm to open one eye. Phlox’s expression is one of pure puzzlement and Malcolm just has to laugh.
“Er, well. An allergy is a reaction, ranging from severe to minor, one’s body gives from something most others find harmless. Ah, pollen, certain foods, that sort of thing.”
Four and a half pairs of eyes widen. “But how fascinating!” exclaims Minister Upola with a clap of his hands. Vibrant purple irises drill into Malcolm, and the Lieutenant wonders if it’s too late to fake passing out. “I don’t believe any such thing exists here on Ihoblaq. Truly, an interesting discovery. Our scientists would love it if they could study further and compare notes, I’m sure, doctor.”
“I’d be happy to share my knowledge on the subject, Minister,” Phlox assures.
The swelling almost completely gone by now, Malcolm makes a move to stand, his chair squeaking and snapping all attention back to him.
“Lieutenant.” The Lady is quick to move in front of him. “As someone with an alair-gees, your input would be much appreciated as well.”
Malcolm glances nervously to Phlox, who only shrugs, then back to the Lady, then up to the main room, catching Trip’s eye. Please, he mouths.
Trip turns and walks away.
Well, shit. Malcolm looks down at the expectant Lady and weighs his options rapid-fire. In the end, it doesn’t seem like he has much choice. “Um… sure, Your Lady. I’ll be happy to assist.”
“But not tonight,” Phlox interrupts hastily. “Lieutenant, you’ve been on your feet long enough, and I know for a fact you got less than four hours of sleep last night. I’m afraid it’s bedtime for you.”
“Ah- doctor,” Malcolm stutters. “You can’t be serious. I have my duties-”
“Which your staff are more than capable of carrying out.”
“The banquet has only an hour at most left in it,” Minister Pir chimes in. “We have noticed many of your people are also retiring to their quarters. Even the strongest warrior must rest, Lieutenant Reed. Your Captain will understand.”
Even Malcolm knows when he’s trapped. He takes one last forlorn glance at Phlox – he’s never hated that smile more in his life – and sighs, before turning and heading towards the stairs.
From the cover of the crowd, Trip watches Malcolm slink off up the stairs. His own emotions confuse him at the moment. Is he feeling guilty or irritated? Maybe a bit of both. Guilty because he stopped Malcolm from scanning something he’d obviously been allergic to, but also irritated because… well, it ran in the Tucker blood.
Or is that just pettiness? ponders a voice in the back of his mind.
Trip ignores it and turns back to the Captain, who is raising his third drink in the air as a toast and wobbling a bit on his feet. Trip smirks. He’s known Jon long enough to identify the signs of drunkenness, and Jon is one drink away from complete autobiography.
Oh, well. The party is winding down now anyway.
He catches Hoshi on her way out and the two exchange a smile. Hoshi, the linguistic goddess, was unashamedly offered the best room of the house. The Ihoblaqi were in complete awe at her abilities, virtually demanding they tell her every little detail of her job.
Trip has been spared the last three days, fortunately. One of the few lucky ones. Engineering is not a big deal on this planet – which is surprising, given that T’Pol initially described them as a scientifically-driven culture. Maybe mechanical science is just not in their top ten. Trip can live without the spotlight for a little while.
“I’m gonna turn in,” he informs Jon, setting his empty glass on the banquet table. The captain offers a wave and slurs “a’ight” before turning back to his conversation partner: a young Ihoblaqi woman with pale skin and bright pink hair. Astonishingly, not dyed. Ihoblaq is a planet of colours.
He’s caught by a few other people his way upstairs. A pair of drunk ensigns asking who he has a crush on; a petite Ihoblaqi with eager purple eyes who asks him things he doesn’t really understand. It’s only when he reaches the door to his room that he remembers – he and Malcolm have a conjoined space.
It’s dark when he opens the door. However, a hasty rustling of sheets gives away the fact that the other occupant is wide awake. “Who’s there?”
“Me.”
“Who’s… oh, Commander. What are you doing here?”
“Didya forget we share a room?” Trip sighs and flings off his shirt. He uses his hands to navigate the darkness, though he is tempted to turn on the lights, just to piss Malcolm off. “I’m jus’ glad we’re not sharin’ a bed.”
Liar, his mind says, and Trip’s face heats up. Damn him if he’s thinking about this now. Malcolm would shoot him if he knew Trip’s feelings for him.
“You and me both.” Malcolm flops back against his pillow. “You’d think, all this space and they still have to pair us up.”
“At least Hoshi an’ Cutler don’t seem ta mind.”
Malcolm grunts in response, clearly not interested in conversation. Trip crawls under the covers himself but doesn’t fall asleep right away. Instead, he lies on his back, eyes open; he listens to Malcolm’s gentle breathing.
“I’m sorry,” Trip eventually whispers.
Malcolm’s breath catches. It’s minute, but it’s there. “Pardon?”
“Sorry for, ah, the thing. Y’know.” Trip waves his hand vaguely before realizing it’s too dark for Malcolm to see. “The scannin’ thing. I shoulda let ya-”
“All due respect, Commander,” Malcolm grumbles, “I would very much like to get to sleep.”
Trip shuts his mouth. After a very, very long pause he mutters “oh”. There’s no response. Malcolm is already asleep – or at least pretending to be.
Trip sighs in annoyance and rolls onto his side, his back facing Malcolm. He closes his eyes.
Trip blinks and stretches his arms over his head, moaning softly as his muscles loosen – then he promptly freezes. Something is wrong.
It doesn’t take long to figure out what.
The surface beneath him is uneven and spongey, nowhere near as comfortable as the bed he was assigned. He rolls onto his side and collides directly with a stone wall. Also odd. His bed, though near a wall, is not right up against it.
Trip fumbles for a lamp which isn’t there, all the while widening and squinting and blinking his eyes, hoping to identify something that will give his location. His head feels like a shuttlepod ran over it. No, two shuttlepods. Trip frowns.
“Malcolm?” he calls softly into the darkness. He’s not exactly sure why he’s whispering so he tries again, louder this time. “Malcolm, you there?”
Silence. No, wait. A soft groan, coming from… coming from where? Close, somewhere close.
Trip swings his legs over the “bed”, yelping in pain and shock when his heels smack directly into concrete. He’s not even a foot above the floor. Just where the hell is he?
Lights flicker on with nearly comedic timing. Bright lights. Trip screws his eyes shut against the glare. God, this is making his headache so much worse.
From somewhere to the right a door opens, the shrill sound of metal against metal grating on Trip’s ears, then it slams shut with an echoing clang. Hurried footsteps follow and then an unfamiliar voice speaks: “I see you’ve awoken!”
Finally, Trip has accustomed to the light enough that he can open his eyes. It’s only a crack but it’s enough to take in his surroundings. Prison cell, he thinks instantly.
Two of the four walls boxing him in are painted a sickening light green color, almost pastel-like. The third and fourth walls, the ones he has the clearest view of, are composed mostly of windows, the only solid surface being the frame running up the sides and across the ceiling. Behind the glass on the fourth wall stands an Ihobaq man dressed in the universal white lab coat, a massive grin on his face showcasing both rows of small, flat teeth. His eyes are the brightest shade of yellow Trip has ever seen.
“Where am I?” Trip asks.
The Ihoblaqi scientist disregards his question and chooses instead to study something on the round device in his hands. “Do not be concerned,” he says evenly. “Rest assured you’ll be treated with the utmost care and caution while you’re here.”
“Where is here ?” Trip asks again.
Once again, he receives no answer. “You may call me Doctor Jdal, Commander Tucker. I will be overseeing the experiments-”
“Experiments?” Trip echoes in a much higher octave than normal.
“-on you and the Lieutenant-Warrior Reed. Don’t worry, your ship knows you are here.”
“Me and…” The realization sinking in, Trip whirls towards the second window-wall just in time to see Malcolm stumble unsteadily to his feet. “Malcolm!” Trip presses himself against the glass like a child wanting to see an aquarium. “Malcolm, are you alright?”
Malcolm groans, massaging both temples with two fingers. “Aside from one killer of a headache, I appear to be fine. Where are we?”
Ain’t that the question, Trip thinks bitterly. “Well, I asked-” he gestures to Doctor Jdal “-but that guy wouldn’t tell me.”
“You are in rooms 5C and 6C of our Science and Medical facility in the Kaiakari province,” the doctor replies cheerfully. “Do not be alarmed, Lieutenant-Warrior Reed. You will be treated with the same level of respect as any of our sentient patients. Your ship knows you are here. I will be back later with further details, and then we shall begin our first stage of the experiments.”
Facility. Sentient patients. Experiments. None of it sounds good, none of it at all. As Doctor Jdal trots out of the room, Trip glances at Malcolm. It’s clear from his expression that they’re both thinking the same thing.