Malcolm Reed (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
tactical_alert) wrote2007-09-06 09:12 pm
tactical_alert) wrote2007-09-06 09:12 pm
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theatrical_muse #189: Talk about a time when what you said wasn't
The Captain was in the brig with him. A place Malcolm never thought he would end up. His thoughts were concentrated, a hate for himself, and a hate rising more and more for Harris.
Archer wanted to know Phlox's location. Harris hadn't told him. There was a lot Harris omitted. A friend and physician--he would tell the Captain if he knew. But he did not, said as much. "On that, you have my word."
"Your word isn't worth much at the moment."
The Captain entered the cell while the sting of the words was wiped from Malcolm's face.
"The Malcolm Reed I know would give his life before committing treason."
Aghast at the suggestion, he defended himself, though with no proof to back it up. "I'm not working for the Klingons!"
"Who then?" Archer was disgusted. Rightfully so. "You've betrayed everything that uniform stands for."
Malcolm thought him right. Somehow it was all for Starfleet, but against at the same time. For the cause--whatever today's Cause might be--but against the one man he trusted above all else. He'd told that to Harris, plain and simple: Captain Archer is a man we can trust.
And yet he allowed his past to catch up with him. "Captain," he began, almost painfully, "there are some obligations that go beyond my loyalty to you and this crew."
The words felt so wrong. Lying to the Captain's face was one thing. Telling him that there was one above him, that he answered to something that took precedence over his natural loyalties...it gutted him, but he tried to hold his ground as best he could.
The MACO keeping post was nodded out the door. "What the hell does that mean?" asked Archer, who had every right to know.
He could say. And Harris need never know. Trust the Captain. With the mission. Trust Phlox. Trust the Klingons. Somehow, some way, trust Harris. Every cell in his body and thought in his brain screamed tell him.
"I can't say any more." The emotion ground into his voice, and to hide his face, he went back over to the bunk, head hanging, hands gripping the edge as if he might snap it off.
"You haven't said much of anything," the Captain argued, and how right he was. "You've told me a lot about your father, his years in the Royal Navy. Their tradition of honour and service." He winced. It hurt. And he knew the Captain had every right to the low blow. "How do you think he'll react when he learns you're facing court-martial?"
Exasperated and mentally worn, the only words that came out of his mouth were, "I wouldn't know, sir."
He knew all too well. His father had stopped recognizing him long ago. Already dishonoured. Dishonourable discharge from family and now, perhaps, more than likely, his career. End of friendships, end of job, end of the life he worked so hard to attain.
His father wouldn't give a damn.
But that didn't matter. His father's opinion did not matter. The Captain's was another matter. And he should have said something; he should have said, should have gone 'wait, Jon, please, you need to know'--not that he would ever call the Captain by his first name, but the urgency and emotion and war on his insides cared about titles and more about trust.
Tell him tell him tell him rolled through his brain, even as the Captain stormed off. Be loyal to your prior obligations said another part. He'd been young, willing to join up, but he thought, he actually thought he knew, that he was let go after joining the NX Programme.
He wanted to say. Wanted to say he was not a traitor. Wanted to explain the situation. Wanted to trust. But he could not.
Instead, there was silence but for the hum of the engine.
Archer wanted to know Phlox's location. Harris hadn't told him. There was a lot Harris omitted. A friend and physician--he would tell the Captain if he knew. But he did not, said as much. "On that, you have my word."
"Your word isn't worth much at the moment."
The Captain entered the cell while the sting of the words was wiped from Malcolm's face.
"The Malcolm Reed I know would give his life before committing treason."
Aghast at the suggestion, he defended himself, though with no proof to back it up. "I'm not working for the Klingons!"
"Who then?" Archer was disgusted. Rightfully so. "You've betrayed everything that uniform stands for."
Malcolm thought him right. Somehow it was all for Starfleet, but against at the same time. For the cause--whatever today's Cause might be--but against the one man he trusted above all else. He'd told that to Harris, plain and simple: Captain Archer is a man we can trust.
And yet he allowed his past to catch up with him. "Captain," he began, almost painfully, "there are some obligations that go beyond my loyalty to you and this crew."
The words felt so wrong. Lying to the Captain's face was one thing. Telling him that there was one above him, that he answered to something that took precedence over his natural loyalties...it gutted him, but he tried to hold his ground as best he could.
The MACO keeping post was nodded out the door. "What the hell does that mean?" asked Archer, who had every right to know.
He could say. And Harris need never know. Trust the Captain. With the mission. Trust Phlox. Trust the Klingons. Somehow, some way, trust Harris. Every cell in his body and thought in his brain screamed tell him.
"I can't say any more." The emotion ground into his voice, and to hide his face, he went back over to the bunk, head hanging, hands gripping the edge as if he might snap it off.
"You haven't said much of anything," the Captain argued, and how right he was. "You've told me a lot about your father, his years in the Royal Navy. Their tradition of honour and service." He winced. It hurt. And he knew the Captain had every right to the low blow. "How do you think he'll react when he learns you're facing court-martial?"
Exasperated and mentally worn, the only words that came out of his mouth were, "I wouldn't know, sir."
He knew all too well. His father had stopped recognizing him long ago. Already dishonoured. Dishonourable discharge from family and now, perhaps, more than likely, his career. End of friendships, end of job, end of the life he worked so hard to attain.
His father wouldn't give a damn.
But that didn't matter. His father's opinion did not matter. The Captain's was another matter. And he should have said something; he should have said, should have gone 'wait, Jon, please, you need to know'--not that he would ever call the Captain by his first name, but the urgency and emotion and war on his insides cared about titles and more about trust.
Tell him tell him tell him rolled through his brain, even as the Captain stormed off. Be loyal to your prior obligations said another part. He'd been young, willing to join up, but he thought, he actually thought he knew, that he was let go after joining the NX Programme.
He wanted to say. Wanted to say he was not a traitor. Wanted to explain the situation. Wanted to trust. But he could not.
Instead, there was silence but for the hum of the engine.