Possibly only the considerations of conduct befitting an officer enabled Malcolm to keep his lips closed on a most unbefitting exclamation when he heard the sound of the Sickbay door hissing open and the doctor greeting Commander Tucker.

Phlox had finally allowed him to settle down for the night, although not without attaching that damned eel to his face to reduce the bruising. His least favourite part of the ship had finally subsided into quiet, in which he could lie still and think – an activity which was likely to be as painful as it was necessary. But it seemed that even this was not to be granted to him.

He was tired, he was sore and he wanted more than anything to be alone. If he could only get some peace and quiet he might be able to start patching himself together, because right at this moment it felt as though the inside of his head had been taken out of it, put into a bag and shaken till the pieces jangled.

He'd accepted that the sessions with T'Pol to help alleviate, if not remove, his Section conditioning would be painful. Allowing anyone access to him that intimately was atrociously difficult even now, and he'd struggled for what felt like hours to lower mental barriers that flew up at the first hint of intrusion. Finally he'd panicked and lost control; they'd both known it could happen, but that didn't help much with the sense of shame that he hadn't been able to prevent it. Fortunately she'd had enough warning to be able to grab him and wrestle him to the floor; she'd been trying to steer him back to reason and acceptance when they were rudely interrupted. All in all, it hadn't been the best night of his life so far – and there would have to be others, if he wanted to stay on Enterprise.

And as if mental trauma and physical assault weren't enough, the inside of his heart hadn't done too well either, over the last couple of hours. He meant what he'd said: he wanted the ship's crew to remain intact, because ever since the incident with the Romulan drone ship he'd been convinced that it was an opening move in a chess game where the opponents' cunning was only exceeded by their ruthlessness. But that was Enterprise's Tactical Officer speaking, and even though Malcolm Reed could concede that the chap was talking sense, he didn't have to burst into frenzied applause.

He listened to Phlox's almost soundless footsteps retreating across Sickbay. Trip's somewhat louder ones came a few paces through the door, and stopped.

His heart sank. Conversely, his temper rose. Hell, wasn't Phlox supposed to protect the people under his care?

He kept his eyes shut, out of sheer perversity. He could feel the commander's gaze on him, taking in the presence of the osmotic eel and the slight swell of bandages beneath the sheet where his side had been strapped up.

"Malcolm," said Trip quietly.

He kept his breathing slow and quiet. Maybe the other man would believe he was asleep, or maybe he'd just take the hint and bugger off.

Apparently, taking hints wasn't among Trip's more well-developed skills. After a few moments the footsteps started again, and came to the edge of the bio-bed.

There was a pause.

"Malcolm, quit tryin' to pretend you're asleep, 'cause I know you're not."

"The case might be different if I were allowed a little peace and quiet," he spat.

Trip folded his arms. Malcolm didn't know how he knew this, but he did. He also knew the damned Yank had got this stubborn expression on his face that meant he wasn't going to be shifted till he'd said what he'd come to say. So he might as well get it off his chest, and then maybe he'd shove off and enrol himself on a correspondence course in Interspecies Dalliance – hopefully one that started with the words 'This Does Not Apply To Vulcans'.

"Aren't you supposed to be still catching your beauty sleep, Commander?" he asked sarcastically. "Or did you just feel like coming down for a stroll before you catch an early breakfast?"

"I don't blame you for bein' mad at me."

Even a partial view of the underside of his revolting passenger couldn't restrain Malcolm from rolling his eyes open long enough to deliver a scorching glare. "I think, on the whole, I'd rather not hear anything you have to say right now. So if you'd kindly take yourself elsewhere, I'd be grateful."

"No, I won't. I'll be damned if I wait till you've had time to climb back inside those defenses of yours and wall yourself up again over a goddamn mistake."

"A mistake!" He almost jeered the word. There'd been a mistake, all right. But it had been his. What had ever prompted him to believe that he'd found a family here – had found a man he'd felt to be the brother he'd never had?

I have no friends. Friends are people who betray you. If only he'd had the sense to stick by that bitter creed, he wouldn't be in this pickle.

'That's what you get for turning soft, Reed,' Harris's voice taunted him in his head. 'You should have stayed where you belonged.'

"Yes. A mistake." Trip grabbed him by the arm, hard enough to hurt. "Goddamn it, Malcolm–!"

"So what the hell is there to talk about, Commander?" Losing his temper completely, he sat up – or tried to, until a sudden sickening surge in the pain under the bandages forced him to stop abruptly with a gasp, beads of sweat springing out on his forehead. Sickbay started to spin, and he closed his eyes again to shut out the sight, even as a hard grip now on both arms propelled him gently back down again and held him flat until the worst of the rigidity went out of his body.

"'What's there to talk about'?" said Trip's voice softly from above him. "I guess you know darn well what needs talkin' about. Things I should never have thought, let alone said. Things you didn't deserve. Things I wish I'd cut my tongue out before I said 'em."

Treacherously, Malcolm's eyes stung. He kept them tightly shut. Friends are people who betray you. And truer words than that had never been bloody spoken.

"I know what you're doin'," Trip went on quietly. "You never have let on too much about yourself. Sometimes I've thought you're like a little owl, lookin' and listenin' all the time, but never showin' yourself.

"One time back home, when I was, oh, ten or eleven it must have been, Lizzie found a baby owl that must've fallen out of a nest in the tree down the road. As long as it thought nobody was lookin', it just sat there with all its feathers fluffed out – but as soon as you got too close it just flopped onto its back and then you saw the claws."

During the course of Malcolm's life he'd been compared to quite a few things, not many of which had been complimentary. His indignation at being compared to a stranded baby owl was only partially tempered by a secret, unwilling gratification at being recognized as armed and dangerous even in his current plight.

"So I know you're just like that little owl right now. You've been knocked out of your nest and you're all riled up and ready to sink your claws into me. An' I don't blame you for that. If you were up for it I'd let you march me down to the gym right now and beat the crap out of me."

"That may still happen," he said through his teeth.

"Maybe. But not right now, I guess. Right now you don't have any choice but to listen to me sayin' I was totally out of order. That I should never have shot my mouth off the way I did. That it was just … hell, maybe it was just the fear talkin', I don't know. 'Cause I'm in over my head, Malcolm. I don't know how to cope with where I am. I don't know what to do for the best, whether to stay here or go back to Columbia and try to work out how to live without her.

"That doesn't make it right that I did what I did. But I'm askin' you to forgive me. Hell, if I have to I'll beg ya. 'Cause I don't have Jon any more, and I don't have Lizzie, and I don't have … I don't have her, and I … I can't stand to lose my best friend too."

They'd never used that particular phrase. It wasn't something you put into words, no matter how many hours you spent building phase cannons together or getting locked in wine cellars together or freezing to death in shuttlepods together or investigating strange craft together or foiling Klingons together or watching movies together; it was something that just happened, and you didn't talk about it or even really think about it, especially if no-one, ever, had been your best friend before.

It was like being the recipient of some kind of magic spell. The hard knot of resistance simply … melted.

For some mysterious reason, Malcolm found it suddenly necessary to swallow. Hard.

"I … bloody hell, Trip," he croaked, when he was finally able to speak. "You don't get rid of me that easily. Now just bugger off and let me get some sleep."

He opened his eyes. Above him, Trip remained still for a long moment more, while their gazes held and a lot was communicated that couldn't be said – and, perhaps, didn't need to be said. Because friendship was too precious to be thrown away over a few stupid words said by a man who was carrying a greater burden than his shoulders could bear.

"Will do, Loo-tenant. And maybe if Chef does pineapple cobbler tonight I'll remember you." The grin was tentative at first, but it broadened at his reply.

"If Chef does pineapple cobbler and you don't, you'll live to regret it."

"Now, gentlemen, I realize that you think that because Sickbay is open at all hours this is the place and time for conversation, but unlike Denobulans, Humans do need sleep every twenty-four hours. And unless both of you co-operate voluntarily, I shall take the appropriate steps to ensure you do." Phlox had apparently been busy with his microscope, but he looked up and pointed towards the door. "Commander, if you please!"

"Sure thing, Doc!" Trip raised his hands placatingly and walked quickly towards the door. Just before he went through it, however, he paused and looked back. "I'll catch you later, Malcolm. And – maybe we'll get to talk a few things over."

"You know where I'll be," Malcolm replied grouchily, waving a hand at his surroundings; but he grinned wryly and nodded, and saw the answering grin in return before Tucker nodded back and left.

The doctor made one or two more notations on the final slide, gave a grunt of satisfaction, and switched off the microscope before rising and walking over to his most reluctant patient. "And now, Mister Reed, will you finally consent to sleep or do I have to sedate you?"

Unaccountably, Malcolm now felt weariness wash over him. He yawned; he could stop himself. "I don't think that'll be necessary, Doctor." He hesitated, and then shot a look that was almost shy at the Denobulan. "I … I know I don't show my gratitude as often as I should, but … thank you."

Phlox's bushy eyebrows rose. "My, lieutenant, you have me seriously concerned. I'm beginning to wonder if I made a mistake with the medication."

"It's always possible. But not very likely."

"I'm gratified by your confidence in my abilities. Now, good night, Mr Reed." He stepped back, and drew the privacy curtain with unmistakable firmness, shutting out the world. Moments later the lights dimmed, and his footsteps retreated.

Malcolm gingerly adjusted his position to find the best comfort he could. Suddenly, sleep looked a most attractive – not to say irresistible – proposition. And he had a new responsibility; one that induced a momentary solemnity as he drowsily contemplated it.

For the first time in his life, he was someone's best friend.

He shook his head slightly, incredulous, and then drifted off to sleep, smiling.

The End

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