A/N: Beta'd by BookQ36, to whom all due thanks for her hard work and helpful suggestions!

There had been silence for a long time in the shuttle; silence, that was, except for the sound of their teeth chattering, which occasionally broke the monotonous rhythm of the two men's shallow breaths.

Thought was growing difficult too. Probably on account of the steadily falling temperature inside the shuttle, as well as the decreasing oxygen content in their blood, as their lungs began to find less in every inhalation.

They both knew the symptoms of hypothermia. They still had a few hours' air left, but the cold was fast approaching serious danger levels. And they had nothing to help them combat it.

The bench had seemed their best option up till now, but Trip realized dully that it wouldn't be long before sitting up unsupported was no longer an option. He probably ought to do something about it pretty soon, because falling wouldn't be a good idea, but he didn't have the energy. And the deck … the deck plating was going to be goddamn freezing. Best to stay where they were for as long as they could.

The slight body leaning against his to conserve what warmth they could between them had been still for so long that he wondered vaguely if Malcolm had passed out, though the attitude of his head – slightly lowered, but not lolling – suggested not. Even as this thought wandered through his fogged brain, however, the lieutenant spoke; slowly and hoarsely, with difficulty that seemed due to more than just the expenditure of the strength of which he now had so little left. Not only weakness and confusion, but slurred speech too, were among the signs of advanced hypothermia.

"Trip … you have any … regrets?"

"Some, I guess." He didn't elaborate, hoping that a more long-winded answer wasn't required. "You?"

"Too many." The dark head drooped. "Wish I'd … done differently."

"S'pose … most people do."

A faint huff of a laugh was his only answer, but it contained painful bitterness.

There was another silence.

Finally, it was broken by another question.

"Do you … trust me, Trip?"

Both the content of the question and the reduced ability of his brain to process the required information ensured that some moments passed before he could produce a fully coherent answer. While he was still trying to formulate a reply – an action that he knew ought to be ridiculously simple – he saw out of the corner of his eye that Malcolm had turned his face towards him. Making the effort to return the look, for this was evidently important, he saw hurt imprinted plainly on the unshaven face opposite him. Reed had taken the delay in replying for hesitation or even denial.

"No…" Trip waved a hand vaguely, dismissing the misunderstanding as best he could. "'Course I … trust ya, Malcolm. 'Keep ship … safe."

He saw with puzzlement that the lieutenant's stare had become fixed, and for some reason it was filled with horror. "How much … do you trust me?" whispered the other man.

This was far too abstruse a question. Even in the best of ordinary circumstances, the chief engineer would have struggled with it, given the extremely limited amount of background information and their relatively short acquaintance. He frowned, trying to puzzle out what the hell the lieutenant was trying to get at now. It seemed that the bourbon was hitting Malcolm in some extremely vulnerable places.

He essayed a faint smile. "As much as … I need to, I guess." He had a terrible feeling it wasn't the right time for humor, even if he'd felt like it, which he didn't; but he simply couldn't come up with anything else to say. "I let you … blow up the engine, didn't I?"

His instinct had been true. The words were no sooner out of this mouth than he knew the flippancy had been inappropriate.

The other officer flinched as though the commander had physically struck him, turning away with a lurch that was strikingly uncharacteristic of his usually controlled movements.

"Hey–!" Decreasing temperatures or not, Trip couldn't let this pass. He put a numb hand awkwardly on the stiff, blue-clad arm beside his own. "Malcolm, I … for what it's worth, I … I'd trust ya with my life." He let out a gasping chuckle at the worthlessness of that sentiment in their present situation. "What's … left of it, anyway."

For a long moment there was no response. Then Reed turned back to him slowly. A long, raking stare searched him.

"I want you … to remember that," the Englishman whispered at last. "If the time comes … when nobody else does."

Tucker blinked at him. "What'n hell's that … s'posed t'mean?"

The stare dissolved. The lids lowered as the gray eyes slid away, an almost self-derisive look now ugly on the tactical officer's face. "We're wasting air."

Trip glared at him through the pulsing of the headache that was now clamped around his temples like an iron band. He knew the stubborn set of that mouth: he'd seen it often enough. The Brit had gone back into his shell, and was now shut up in it tighter than a clam. And the other man was right: continuing to argue was indeed wasting a commodity of which they had precious little left. If their desperate gamble was to pay off, they had to husband every remaining molecule of oxygen.

But it was going to pay off, he told himself resolutely. And when it did, Lieutenant Malcolm Reed was going to have some questions to answer, in an environment where it'd take a damn sight more than considerations of conserving oxygen to get him off the hook. The chink which had just opened up in Reed's armor-plated defenses had revealed something deeply worrying beneath it, and it was the duty of a senior officer as well as of a friend to get to the bottom of the matter. Even if it was only to reassure himself that it was just the bourbon talking.

You and I are gonna have this out, Lieutenant, whether you like it or not, his glare said.

His junior officer gave him back look for look. You can try. Sir.

And after that they went back to silence. And breathing. Interspersed by the occasional chattering of teeth.

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