Author's E-mail: firstname.lastname@example.org
Author's URL: http://tripmalcolm.houseoftucker.com
Summary: Trip and Malcolm contemplate the changes in each other.
Disclaimer: The series is owned by Paramount, as are the characters.
Author’s Notes: This is my first vignette, so feedback would be greatly
I punch in another number on my console. Same as before:
phaser cannons at full power, photonic torpedoes safely in their bays, awaiting
my order to release their deadly havoc. I look up and see him. The captain of
Enterprise. He’s been captain of this ship the longest. Eight years.
First warp five capable Earth vessel. Earth...is it really gone? I sometimes
can’t believe it’s real. I wonder if I’m living a dream...no, nightmare.
Patrolling for those bloody Xindi, day after day, wondering when they’re going
to find us and finish us off. He turns to look at me and smiles that knowing
smile we share. I drink him in, committing that face to memory. Blond hair, once
combed up and always stiff, now flecked with gray, scattering across his
forehead. His eyes...his eyes...so blue once, so vibrant and full of life,
twinkling, mischievous, now diluted with worry and antipathy for what we’re
doing, why we have to do it. His smile brings out the wrinkles and lines around
those once-lively eyes, the furrows of eight years of constantly watching his
back...no, our backs, constantly prepared to tell us who to fight when
to fight why to fight. These years have strained him, pressing him down with the
onus of command. Yet, he smiles at me, a genuine, heartfelt smile for his friend
and first officer. I love him.
I watch the peaceful planet below us on the view screen. Do they raise their
eyes to the sky to see if we’re still watching out for them? I turn to see him
looking at me. Those bottomless gray-blue eyes are upon me. More gray now, steel
having entered them through years of watching our backs. He’s the first line of
defense, always ready, always waiting. Eight years now. Eight long, grueling
years wondering when they’re gonna show up to complete their
mission. I take him all in: wavy brown hair still looking picture perfect since
the day I met him…no, it’s different now. It wears the colors of age and unkind
duty at the sides. The beard…when did he grow it? Was he ever without it? I want
to feel it against my fingertips, tickling. Creases surround his eyes, a barrier
created by anguish. Against the horrors he’s seen? Against the loneliness? No,
you’re not alone. I’m here; I’ll always
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