The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea - Chapter 9

The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

by Sita Z

Disclaimers in Chapter 1

****

Chapter 9

Medical Log, Chief Medical Officer Phlox:

It is now one week ago that Commander Tucker has suffered the metabolic shock that is causing his current condition. Aside from an acute attack of hypoglycemia the Commander experienced a cardiovascular incident that resulted in a temporary respiratory arrest, and although I was able to revive him in a relatively short amount of time, I am still very worried about his condition. I am currently keeping the Commander under sedation to be able to provide a steady replenishment of his glycogen supplies without exposing his body to any additional stress. The fetus is still in a good state of health, and it will probably take less than two weeks for the child to be fully capable of surviving on its own. Still, the process of detachment from the pericardium has not yet been initiated, and at the moment there is no way of removing the fetus without causing its instant death. If conditions remain unchanged, the Commander will very likely not survive to witness the birth. It is his express wish, however, that I take no action which could harm the child, and so the only thing I can do is try to stabilize his condition to the best of my possibilities.

His head hurt. Malcolm had experienced a certain dull ache behind his forehead all day, and now the ache seemed to have decided to turn into a real, throbbing pain, making it impossible for him to concentrate on the report lying in front of him on the table. He sighed, resting his forehead on his hand, and began to read the same sentence for the third time. The letters blurred before his eyes, and Malcolm blinked, trying to clear his vision. Maybe he ought to go to bed, after all.

Leaning back in his chair, Malcolm looked around the messhall, hoping to find something that would distract him from the pain in his head. The reports certainly were no help as far as that was concerned; looking at the small displays for a longer period of time only served to make his eyes burn, and the reports themselves held no surprises for him, anyway. Minor malfunction in the phaser software repaired, target practice for Beta shift postponed, tactical routine of the month revised and filed away.

Should add "no malfunction in the targeting scanners", Malcolm thought, for the first time today feeling a weary smile tug at his lips. After almost three weeks without any trouble he finally allowed himself to believe that maybe the problem had really been the energy flashback. Not that he didn't trust T'Pol's judgement, but after all those month, Malcolm had almost started believing those bloody things were really jinxed.

His head gave another painful throb, and Malcolm briefly closed his eyes. He was tired, but he knew it wouldn't be a good idea to go to sleep with that head ache. These things never went away over night, and waking up with your head pounding like mad was not on Malcolm's list of best ways to start your day.

He could, of course, go down to sickbay and ask Phlox to give him something. Go to see Trip.

Not that Trip would notice, Malcolm thought, pushing the padds away and resting his forehead on his hands. The Commander was still unconscious, still hooked up to those machines that provided his body with nutrition. Phlox said it would help him on a subconscious level to hear familiar voices talking to him, but Malcolm couldn't really see how that was supposed to work. Trip had looked so – dead, the last time Malcolm had gone to see him. So oblivious to everything around him, including his visitors who still spoke in quiet, subdued tones so as not to disturb him. They could just as well have shouted. Trip wasn't going to wake up. And according to Phlox it was going to stay that way until...

...until he died. That's right, Malcolm told himself. Don't try to push it away. Died. Died.

He experienced a strange satisfaction, making himself repeat the word so often it lost its meaning. It was a feeling similar to picking at a fresh scratch, wincing when it hurt, and still watching mesmerized when bright red blood emerged from the reopened wound.

It had been so easy for him, sitting right at this table four weeks ago, spouting words of wisdom and morale as if he were entitled to either of those. So damn easy. "You're not alone in this", he'd told the Commander. Such an easy, empty thing to say. And so damn wrong. Trip was alone, he was as alone as one could be, lying down there in sickbay, lost in his own world of drug-induced dreams, and soon even that was going to be taken away from him. Taken away not least because he had listened to the advice of one of his oh-so-well-meaning friends.

Malcolm still didn't know why he hadn't simply left that night, left without poking his nose into Trip's business and making things even worse by trying to be a friend. As if he had any right to do so. Granted, Trip had asked him to stay, but this didn't change anything about the fact that Malcolm had broken his own rule number one and made someone else's business his own. And with disastrous results.

He picked up his padd again, staring at the display until his eyes began to water. He needed to finish those reports. If nothing else, he could at least do his job.

The messhall door slid open, but Malcolm didn't raise his head to see who had come. He didn't care. His head was giving him hell, and he still had more than seven of those reports left to read before he could finally leave this place and go to bed. He heard quiet steps walking over to the resequencer, then a woman's voice ordering a drink, but he didn't hear what she said. Returning his attention to the rows of letters in front of him, Malcolm tried to fathom their meaning. It almost seemed like they had been arranged in a random fashion, making no sense at all, and for all he cared they could be. He was so tired.

"Hey."

Hoshi's voice. Malcolm looked up, and saw the young communications officer standing in front of his table, cradling a cup in both hands. "Still busy?"

Malcolm shrugged, wishing he had stayed in his quarters. There, at least, he didn't have to talk to people when he was scarcely able to bear his own company.

"Just some reports I need to have finished by tomorrow."

Hoshi smiled, sitting down next to him, still holding her cup between her palms as if she were trying to warm her hands. "It is tomorrow, Lieutenant." She pointed at the wall chronometer. "It's past midnight already."

Malcolm didn't really know what to say to this, and so he shrugged again, realizing a moment later that this must seem rather rude to Hoshi. "Oh," he added lamely, attempting a smile. "I must have forgotten about the time."

Hoshi raised her eyebrows in disbelief. "You always work late, Lieutenant." She took a sip from her drink, and a moment of silence followed. Malcolm knew he should try to say something, keep conversation going, but his mind was blank. His headache had grown even worse, and he couldn't think of a single topic to talk about. Nothing that he wanted to talk about, anyway.

"I went to see Commander Tucker earlier," Hoshi said all of a sudden. Malcolm swallowed. He had no wish to talk about Trip. Didn't want to hear Hoshi telling him how pale and thin the Commander looked, lying on that bed down in sickbay. How terrible she felt about the whole thing. How terrible everyone felt.

Malcolm said nothing, staring down at his hands which were still holding the padd.

"T'Pol was there," Hoshi continued quietly. "She was reading him Engineering reports."

Looking up, Malcolm saw a sad smile crossing Hoshi's face. "She said the doctor had said to talk to Trip, and so..."

She didn't continue, and Malcolm briefly closed his eyes. Somehow, the image of T'Pol sitting next to Trip's biobed reading reports to the unconscious man brought back all the hurt and grief he'd been trying to suppress. The gesture seemed to show just how helpless they all were in the face of what was happening to Trip.

"I'm so sorry, Hoshi," Malcolm said. He didn't know where the words had come from. Somehow he simply needed to say this. Malcolm felt he had no right to go down to Trip and tell him himself, but someone needed to hear that he was sorry. Terribly, terribly sorry for messing with other people's business, and making things worse than they'd been before.

Hoshi regarded him for a moment. "Why would you be sorry?"

Malcolm shook his head. "I talked to him. Right after they were back from the Xyrillian ship. Said he shouldn't let Phlox operate on him. I told him it would be the wrong thing to do." He gave a short, humorless laugh. "Can you imagine that? The wrong thing to do. As if there's any right or wrong to this."

"There is." Malcolm looked up, and saw Hoshi's eyes resting on him with the same quiet, slightly sad expression they had held before when she'd told him about T'Pol.

"What do you mean?"

"Malcolm." Hoshi let go of her cup, reaching over the table and carefully laying her hand on his. "Do you really think Trip would have decided against the operation – twice – if he hadn't believed that he was doing the right thing? Phlox told him what was going to happen, and he still refused to undergo surgery. I bet he was glad you talked to him. I can't imagine what it must have been like, having to make this decision. I'm sure he was glad there was someone who listened."

Malcolm averted his eyes. "I had no right to tell him what to do."

"Malcolm." Her grip on his hand grew firmer. "You didn't tell him what to do. You talked to him because he needed a friend who listened. There is nothing wrong with that. Or did you make fun of him, and say things you don't mean just to see how he'd react?"

That made him look back at her. "Of course not!"

Hoshi's face didn't change. "I didn't think so. No one could know what was going to happen, Malcolm. Not even Dr.Phlox. You acted to the best of your knowledge, and no one would ever blame you. I know Trip wouldn't."

Malcolm said nothing. He would never be able to ask Trip whether he blamed him or not. What Hoshi said sounded right; hell, he'd been trying to tell himself the same things, but somehow it didn't really help. Even if he wasn't to blame, even if no one was, Trip was still going to die. And it wasn't right. Not at all.

He felt Hoshi's fingers let go of his hand, and for a moment he regretted the loss of contact. Her hand was so warm, and his fingers were cold from gripping the edge of report padds for too long.

"I'm worried about the Captain," Hoshi said. "He hardly talks to anyone these days. T'Pol told me he hasn't been eating, either."

"It must be hard for him. Trip is his best friend, after all."

Hoshi nodded, staring into her cup. Malcolm thought of the Captain, sitting at the Commander's bedside hour after hour, and sighed. His head ache was still pounding behind his eyelids, and he resigned to the thought that it wasn't going to wear off by itself, after all. Well, he thought, watching Hoshi get up and carry her cup to the recycler, doesn't matter. Still got work to do. And nothing like a little headache to keep you awake.

"Good night, Lieutenant."

He looked up and saw Hoshi standing at the door. Malcolm smiled briefly. "Good night, Ensign."

The door slid shut and Malcolm bent back down over his padds. Seven reports to go.

###

"Captain!"

Phlox' voice. It seemed to come from far away. Someone laid a hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently, and the contact startled Archer back to full awareness. He opened his eyes, realizing that he must have nodded off on his chair. The doctor was looking down at him, the skin around his eyes creased with exasperation.

"Why don't you go get some rest, Captain. You've been here for more than six hours."

Archer gave no answer, straightening up on his chair and looking over at the biobed. The sight had become familiar by now, but still he couldn't seem to get used to it, feeling that pang in his chest every time he looked at his friend.

Trip lay on his back, covered with one of the pale blue sickbay blankets, his head resting on a flat pillow. There were IV tubes inserted in both his arms, and a third tube for extra medication, as Phlox had told him. Archer had no idea what "extra medication" was supposed to be, but he hadn't asked the doctor about it. He knew the infusions were necessary, no, more than that, they were keeping Trip alive, but still, the sight of all those tubes and machines connected to Trip's body hurt. His eyes wandered to where the blanket had a round bulge, protruding as if someone had laid a pillow on Trip's stomach. Phlox had been happy about this new development, saying that if the child hadn't sunk further down it would have broken Tucker's ribs. A long-winded explanation how it still managed to maintain its connection with the pericardium had followed, but Archer hadn't really listened. He couldn't help but notice that Trip now looked more pregnant than ever before, and he didn't like it. It made him angry. There was something comical about the sight of a man with a pod, something absurd, and Archer hated the idea of Trip having to endure people's stares while he was in no position to defend his dignity. There was nothing funny about what was happening to Trip, nothing at all.

"Captain." Phlox' voice brought him back to the present. "You need to go get some sleep."

"How is he?" Archer glanced at the monitor's above Trip's head. Phlox sighed.

"There have been no changes since you asked me two hours ago. Oh, wait..." He stepped closer to the bed, and Archer watched in apprehension.

"What is it, doc?"

"Nothing to worry about." Phlox turned around, a small smile on his lips. "The child has woken up again. She is doing just fine."

I don't care how she's doing. Archer bit down on his lips to prevent the words from slipping out. It wasn't right to think these things, but he couldn't help it. Sometimes he felt a helpless, irrational anger when he thought of the child whose life Trip was trying to save no matter at what cost. Even if he himself died in the process. And she was always doing fine. No matter how weak and hollow-cheeked Trip was starting to look, she was in perfect health, sapping his strength and growing bigger with every day.

Archer inwardly shook his head at his thoughts. He knew he wouldn't normally lay the blame on someone who was least responsible of all. Maybe Phlox was right. Maybe he was only making things worse for everybody by staying at Trip's bedside for hours at a time, hardly sleeping more than three hours a night. Maybe he ought to go to bed, after all.

Against his own advice Archer stayed put. He stared at the monitor, registering the steady flashing of the screen without really seeing it. Maybe it was his tiredness, or the fact that he'd spent more than six hours sitting at his unconscious friend's bedside. Archer didn't know. He only knew that he'd never intended to ask the question which suddenly hung in the air between them.

"Can't you just operate on him? Before his condition becomes fatal, I mean?"

The moment he said it, he wished he could take the words back. Phlox turned around, a deep crease between his eyebrows as he looked at his captain.

"You mean, remove the child against Commander Tucker's will?"

Archer said nothing. He knew what Phlox was going to tell him; it would be horrible to do so, a crime, actually. Archer knew that. Still, he could only think that if he gave that order, if Phlox performed that operation, then Trip would be safe. He wouldn't have his vital energy sucked out of him by an alien life form, and he wouldn't die in only a few days time.

"Captain." Phlox' voice sounded resigned. Archer looked up and saw the doctor watching him with an almost sad expression. The outraged lecture on medical ethics Archer had been sure would follow didn't come. "Of course I can't. You know that. But I understand why you're asking." He folded his arms, letting out a small sigh. "I wasn't going to mention it yet, so as not to raise any false hopes, but-"

"What?" Archer got up. Phlox raised his hands.

"Captain, please. As I said, there is no reason to become overly optimistic. I have been experimenting with some substances I assumed to be similar to those Xyrillian pregnancy enzymes I told you about. There is a slight chance that I'll be able to synthesize a serum that will help adapt Commander Tucker's body to the great stress he's being exposed to."

Archer felt his pulse quicken. "Are you saying Trip'll be-"

"I'm only saying I might be able to put off the impending crisis for a certain period of time. No more than a few days, in all likelihood."

Archer looked down at Trip. "When will you know for sure?"

"Tomorrow, at the earliest. The tests are still running. Captain..." Phlox hesitated. "It might work, but it is equally as possible that the serum turns out to show no effect, after all."

Archer nodded, though he couldn't help but smile for the first time in days. All this time he'd been hoping, almost frantically, that something was going to happen, anything that proved the odds and Phlox' dire predictions wrong. It just couldn't be that he was going to lose Trip – not like that. He remembered his conversation with Trip's parents six days ago, twenty-four hours after Trip had gone into metabolic shock. They had shown similar feelings. Trip couldn't just die, leaving them with nothing but the painful question why someone at the height of his career, someone who had managed to achieve his goal in life, would decide to give it all up. Give up his life for a reason no one really understood. Archer thought of how Susan Tucker had asked him the very question he had asked Phlox – can't you just operate on him – and bit his lip. Maybe he wouldn't have to call the Tuckers in only a few days from now, informing them that medical ethics and Commander Tucker's personal decision had eventually led to their son's death, please accept my condolences. Maybe Archer wouldn't have to wonder for the rest of his life if he somehow could have prevented his best friend's death, after all.

"Captain..." He felt Phlox hand on his shoulder. "You know I can order you to go and get some rest." He paused briefly. "I don't want to do so, but I will if you won't listen to reason."

The Captain met the doctor's level gaze. He knew Phlox wouldn't hesitate to act on his threat if he continued to neglect the doctor's orders. Suddenly, however, leaving Trip's bedside for a few hours in order to get some rest didn't seem such an absurd idea anymore. His lids were burning, rubbing against his eyes like they were made of sandpaper, and Archer realized that he was tired enough to go to sleep right here and now.

Phlox, taking his silence as objection, tightened his grip on Archer's shoulder. "Captain. Bringing yourself to the point of physical collapse won't help Commander Tucker in any way. I promise I'll notify you immediately if there are any changes..."

Archer held up his hands. "On my way."

For a moment the doctor's face showed plain relief before he was able to cover it up, smiling his "You'd better" smile which he usually reserved only for his favorite patient, one Lieutenant Malcolm Reed.

"There you go, Captain." The hand on Archer's shoulder remained, firmly but gently steering him in the direction of the sickbay doors. The Captain allowed himself to be all but frogmarched to the exit, throwing a last glance over his shoulder as he left. Trip was still sleeping, of course, still giving no indication that he was still alive in there, after all. Phlox noticed his look.

"At the moment the Commander's condition is relatively stable. Don't worry, Captain." He pressed the button to open the bulkhead. "Have a good night's rest."

Stepping out into the corridor, Archer once more became aware of the scratching, burning sensation behind his eyelids, and sighed. He probably wouldn't be able to stop worrying, but at the moment having a good night's rest seemed, as T'Pol would have said, the logical thing to do.

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