A new Friend In Need story.

RoaringMice did the usual wonderful job beta reading.

A generous friendship no cold medium knows,
Burns with one love, with one resentment glows.

Alexander Pope (1688–1744)

"Hey."

The word floated lonesome in the air, for it was acknowledged only with a quick look.

He had not needed to check with internal sensors to track him down, and that was a good thing because he wasn't even sure internal sensors worked. There weren't many places where Lieutenant Malcolm Reed would go when he was brooding, and in this particular case Trip had been pretty sure the man also needed to let off some steam, so he had gone directly to the gym. And there, indeed, he had found him. All alone, but no wonder: who would spend precious energy exercising? In this wreck of a ship that was barely kept in one piece, the gym may have remained – rather appropriately, for some strange twist of fate – in relatively good shape; however, the same could not be said for Enterprise's crew.

Yes, the gym was the last place where Trip would have chosen to spend the evening. But he wanted to confront Malcolm with the issue right away, because… Well, first of all because his conscience was nagging him, but also because these days, when there was no certainty of tomorrow, he felt he needed to clear the air between them. If he was right, this was one of those things that if left to fester could spoil the close relationship he had so painstakingly built with this man, and he didn't want that.

The only sounds in the room were those of Malcolm's breathing and the soft tapping of his feet: eyes straight ahead, dirty and dishevelled as he – they – had been ever since the attack, Malcolm was jogging on an endless belt and, judging by the large cone-shaped stain on his sleeveless shirt and the rivulets of perspiration trickling down his face, he must have been at it for some time. As far as Trip was concerned it was a wonder the man should have the energy even to consider doing some exercise, after what they'd been through; but Malcolm would be Malcolm. What was he trying to do, anyway? Run away from what? He could not outrun the events of today any more than he could that belt.

Trip bit the inside of his cheek. For the amount of attention he was receiving it was as if he weren't even there. But there was one way correct that. He went to stand right in front of the machine.

"I'm lookin' for a sparring partner. Wanna go?"

Unreadable grey eyes shifted down to him. Then Malcolm slammed a hand on the control and deftly slid off the belt as it came to a halt. "Sure," he breathed out darkly. Reaching for his towel, he buried his face in it for a long moment, chest heaving. Finally his breathing slowed down a little and he re-emerged. He was wearing The Mask. They exchanged a silent look and went around a fallen beam to the mat, where Malcolm threw him hand pads.

Hand pads for a little friendly sparring… Hmm… Malcolm obviously meant business, and all of a sudden this seemed like a very bad idea. On any given day he had little hope of flooring the Security Officer, of course, but when this was in a foul mood and/or mad – with him, with himself, with the world – the odds plummeted to zero. Pride wasn't the problem: the thing that worried Trip, as he studied the set of Malcolm's jaw while his friend got ready, was that even at his best he might not come out of this without needing Phlox's care. Not that Malcolm would deliberately hurt him, but in his present frame of mind he seemed likely to be a little rougher than the occasion would warrant.

"Ready?" Malcolm asked, abruptly raising those impenetrable eyes.

"Sure," Trip replied. As ready as I'll ever be.

They took position and started to circle each other guardedly, in that silly sort of dance Trip had always found slightly funny to watch. Now, though, there was nothing funny about it. Now, as he moved in synchronicity with Malcolm's movements, all he could think of was to try and keep his eyes fixed in his friend's eyes. Major Hayes's words from a few weeks before echoed in his mind: You were looking at his hands, whereas you should've been looking at his eyes… It wasn't easy to do that and keep focussed, though, because the grey gaze was cold and cutting, and Trip had to force his mind away from the events that had turned it this way; that had made Malcolm put on The Mask; even with him.

Trip's muscles were tense in anticipation of his opponent's lunge, but Malcolm almost looked to be toying with him, waiting for him to break his defence and make the first move. And of course it wasn't long before Trip ran out of patience and did just that. He threw a combination of punches, which Malcolm parried with practised ease and not a movement too many before starting to circle again, light on his feet despite the past couple of days and the kilometres he must have just run. Didn't his batteries ever run dry?

Seconds ticked by and still Malcolm wouldn't do anything to come forward. He looked like a panther ready to pounce. Trip began to wonder why he didn't.

"What is it, afraid that I'll break?" he asked in irritation. "I thought this was a sparring match."

The punch came so fast that he barely had time to avoid it. He did, though, and was already feeling smug about it when a combination flew his way; he parried one blow and made to move out of the way of the next one but succeeded only partially, and it hit him pretty hard on one shoulder, sending him off balance.

"I know why you're here," Malcolm said antagonistically, giving him time to recover. "This sparring match is only a bloody excuse."

Well, at least he was getting something out of the man. If it was only anger, so be it. It might shatter The Mask.

"You think so? Ever occurred to you I might need to let off steam too?" Trip said without hostility, resuming his stance. Without waiting for an answer he threw a side kick, but Malcolm nimbly stepped out of range.

"Let off steam?" he spat out. "Why? To work out the frustration of having to adjust a stolen warp core that wasn't a perfect fit?"

Malcolm's voice was deeper and more clipped than usual, like the rumbling of a storm getting ready to break. With a couple of approaching leaps he came forward and threw another punch, but talking had distracted him: this time Trip was ready and managed to land one of his own on his friend's jaw.

Grimacing unhappily, he mentally kicked himself for this harebrained idea of his; but Malcolm seemed incongruously pleased as he passed the back of his hand over the spot where he'd been hit, eyes flashing. "Very good, Commander," he said dangerously, as if receiving a blow would sanction the beginning of the real match. "Let's see what else you can do."

In a flurry of movement he pivoted on himself and then uncoiled, and Trip, who was still mulling the idiocy of his plan, could only limit the damage, turning to receive the kick on his arm, instead of his chest. A moment later he had been slammed flat on his back. Malcolm's hard-set features were inches from him, his breath coming in warm gusts on his face.

The wind had been knocked out of Trip's lungs, and his sight blurred for a moment. Perhaps it was time to lay his cards on the table, before things got out of control. "I didn't enjoy doing what we did today any more than you did, Malcolm," he said firmly when he found his voice again, meeting that too-close-for-comfort glare.

The grey eyes narrowed. "Oh, really? But you don't seem to have a problem with it, do you? You went along, did your part diligently; and now that it's done it's already put behind you," he snarled. "You tweaked the bloody thing to make it work with our drive, and now you can call it a day and go get your well-deserved rest!"

With a low growl Malcolm released him and bounced back to his feet.

Anger had finally caught up with Trip too; everyone knew he hadn't had a well-deserved rest since the attack on Earth and his sister's death. He jumped to his feet as well, suddenly eager to resume their sparring. Fists tight, arms straight down his sides, he shot Malcolm a venomous look. "Seven million people were killed, and I'll do whatever it takes to save the rest, even steal a warp core, and if you can't stomach that, Lieutenant, that's just too bad."

Malcolm was on him in a second, but Trip had expected it and was ready. The 'sparring match', though, had suddenly gone a good couple of notches more difficult than he could handle. Eventually a hard blow to his jaw sent his head flying back, and the next he knew he was on the floor again, seeing stars. A metallic taste was in his mouth.

Lying still, Trip tried to catch his breath and his bearings, eyes scrunched closed; and for a long moment the sound of hard breathing – his own? Malcolm's? – was the only thing on which he was able to focus. He didn't feel he could move a finger, he was so damn tired. And he didn't want to, didn't know how to continue this confrontation. He had got it all wrong. Everything was all wrong.

He half expected to be pulled roughly back to his feet; or perhaps he would open his eyes and find that Malcolm had left. But instead a hand came to rest on his chest.

"Trip…"

When he did open his eyes Malcolm was crouching beside him. The Mask had shattered. The grey gaze was letting him in, into confusion and pain.

Confusion and pain: that's all there seemed to be in the eyes of people these days. Even T'Pol's eyes had been filled with confusion and pain when Archer had gone on that 'suicide mission'.

"I'm fine," Trip mumbled, feeling his broken lip with a tentative hand. Fine! What a joke. He had sounded just like a certain Lieutenant.

The man in question looked at him speechlessly; then he passed a hand over his sweaty face and got to his feet. Trip propped himself up on his elbows and watched him stumble to retrieve a towel and a bottle of water, which, a moment later, he silently handed to him.

"Thanks." Rolling on one side, Trip wet the towel and pressed it onto his lip, all the while studying Malcolm, who had suddenly deflated and dropped to sit down, legs forming a loose oval in front of him, elbows on his knees, chin on his chest. He looked the bereaved twin of the man who had just fought with him.

"Listen… I'm sorry I said what I said before," Trip said awkwardly, removing the blood-stained towel. "I didn't mean to say that you…" He faltered, not quite finding the thread of his thoughts.

Malcolm didn't budge; didn't react. He sat gazing straight down, at a spot on the floor.

"Hell, Malcolm," Trip blurted out, "We can't be too… This is… this is war!"

"There are rules even in war," Malcolm murmured grimly, still frozen in place.

Trip winced. "I know but… if we lose this war, humanity will be wiped out," he insisted. "The stakes are just too high…"

There was a long moment of silence.

Malcolm blinked and, finally turning to Trip, lifted troubled eyes. "All I know is that in the space of a few hours I blew up in cold blood a manned lunar colony, and then I fired on a ship of peaceful people, stranding them three years from home. Hell, I probably killed them too," he said, emotion veiling his voice. He let out a tormented huff. "I bargained with my conscience, trampled on my honour."

"You did what you were told to do, obeyed your orders," Trip countered firmly, desperately trying to appeal to Malcolm's strong sense of duty. But in fact it was just his friend's strong sense of duty that was pulling him apart: his professional and ethical duties hadn't coincided, and he had felt an equally compelling obligation to both. And Trip was beginning to see the full extent of his anguish: if he himself, who had lost family in the attack, had felt a few pangs of conscience about stealing that warp core, what would Malcolm feel, he who had actually pulled the trigger, killed those Xindi on that moon, incapacitated that ship?

"Orders to be bloody murderers and pirates," Malcolm spat out, although the fight from before had left him, and he sounded more broken than angry. "I wasn't strong enough to question them seriously, or refuse to obey," he continued. "No one was," he added quietly, shooting Trip a look.

And there, finally, Trip read the unspoken accusation: he – Trip – had accepted Archer's course of action without saying a word. Malcolm had expected him to voice reservations about the Captain's plan, and he had not. Yes, he had sensed that his friend had resented his silent compliance: wasn't that why he had come looking for Malcolm tonight?

"What is happening to us?" Malcolm wondered in distress, searching his eyes. Where have we got to?" His gaze tracked to Trip's swollen lip. "Even this now… I never would have hurt a friend before this damn--"

"This was my fault," Trip hurried to cut him off. "It was stupid of me to ask you to spar, under the circumstances." Of this at least he was certain, because of all the rest he wasn't.

Malcolm shook his head. "No, I lost control, and that shouldn't happen. This mission is changing me," he said, digging the heels of his hands on his eyes as his head dropped forward again.

Trip sighed. "Not only you," he said tautly. He reached out to touch Malcolm's arm, feeling the man's muscles immediately tense. "I'm sorry if I let you down today," he went on, letting his heart speak. "Maybe I should have questioned the Capt'n's orders, but…" A lump formed in his throat and he pushed it down; and when he managed to go on his voice had a hard edge to it even he didn't like. "The truth is those seven million are always in my mind." He paused. "I guess I'm not as good a person as you may have thought me to be."

It was a long and agonising moment before Malcolm re-emerged from behind his hands and looked at him. "I was no better," he finally breathed out. Then he pushed tiredly to his feet and held out a hand to help him up.

Trip let himself be pulled to a standing position. While he searched his friend's face to understand where he stood with him, he saw the grey eyes shift to his still bleeding lip and grow rueful and then concerned, and the knot of tension in his gut began to melt. Maybe their friendship would pull through this.

"Let me take you to Phlox," Malcolm offered, wincing.

Trip shook his head. "It's nothing."

"I want to be certain you didn't bang your head too hard." Malcolm insisted, looking unsure.

"Nah, I only see one of you, thank God," Trip reassured him, letting a touch of humour tinge his voice. More seriously he added, "Besides, Phlox has his hands full."

That, finally, made Malcolm lift his eyebrows in grim agreement.

They left the gym and walked along the corridors in silence. There were still teams on almost every corner, working to fix the terrible damage inflicted by the recent battle, and the atmosphere was heavy and tense. Trip wondered how Archer must be feeling, having been the one to give orders that had triggered such guilt in those who had followed them. At least they, his crew, had each other to fall back on; but he was, by his own choice these days, alone.

They got to Malcolm's quarters and the man turned, looking so unlike himself, unkempt and dirty. Trip could see he still felt confused, that their little conversation might have cleared the air between them but hadn't done much to ease the weight on Malcolm's conscience. There was probably nothing he could say to help him, but he felt he had to make one last effort.

"What we did today may be wrong in itself," he said, wincing as he remembered that not long before he had told Archer just the opposite, that he had done the right thing. He cast a look up the corridor where voices could be heard approaching. "But if it ends up saving billions of lives, maybe… maybe it was justifiable. I never was one for Vulcan logic, but in this case I must say that 'the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few' sounds reasonable."

Malcolm's mouth tightened in an unconvinced smirk. "That's one way of looking at it," he conceded quietly. A couple of crewmen appeared, and he waited until they had passed, following them with his gaze, before turning back. His eyes shifted once again to Trip's broken lip. "Sometimes it takes passing the limit to come to one's senses," he said meaningfully. "What I believe, rather, is that today Captain Archer has passed the limit; I hope he has also come to his senses, because I'm not certain I can obey more orders like the last ones." He heaved a breath. "But thank you for... you know…" Malcolm's eyes lifted and they were very deep. "A true friend is all that remains to us, in this hell," he murmured.

Trip felt a welcome warmth finally spread within him. A true friend. What was a true friend, after all, if not someone you could yell at and punch, and still feel close to? Someone who would understand you even when he didn't see things the way you did? Yes, they were true friends to each other.

"Absolutely," Trip breathed out, faking a blow to Malcolm's chin.

Malcolm tilted his head slightly, pretending to receive it. A pale smile curved his mouth a moment later, and Trip mirrored it.

Good enough. Whatever tomorrow may bring, they would face it together.

THE END