You Never Know

You never know

by Evalyn A.

Rating: Romance, G.
Disclaimer: Not making a dime off of this, they belong to Paramount, they don’t belong to me, although finally they’re starting to act as if they did. If I were in it for the money, I’d have gotten a real job long ago.
May be archived, just let me know.
Summary: Malcolm goes to movie night and has a conversation with T'Pol.

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Malcolm swore silently to himself as his latest attempt to refit the phase pistol for 10 terawatt output in the infrared band resulted in a burned palm and a somewhat misshapen pistol grip. In a one-on-one the Xindi appeared almost invincible, but based on his spectral analysis of the security logs after the Xindi invasion of the ship, Malcolm was convinced that a few more terawatts could make the difference. They had to; something had to. He tried to pick up the microwelder with his other hand, but, regretfully, decided a trip to Sickbay was probably in order instead.

He entered Sickbay trying to hold his hand as if nothing was bothering him and he had stopped by just for an evening chat. Phlox turned and greeted him cheerily. “Mr. Reed! How nice to see you again. Don’t tell me, another encounter with a plasma relay?”

Malcolm sat on the biobed, nursing his injured hand and leveling a grumpy frown on the doctor. “You don’t have to look so bloody pleased to see me. Can’t you see I’m in pain here?”

The doctor tsked as he examined the burnt hand. “You should be taking safety precautions, Mr. Reed. We had a full complement of type L gloves when we left spacedock, why aren’t you wearing them when performing alterations on the weaponry?”

Reed sucked in his breath as Phlox applied the ooze from some slimy creature or other onto the burnt patch on his palm. “I can’t feel what I’m doing when I wear them, I need to be able to tell when I’ve got the right connections made.”

“Well, your current technique doesn’t seem to be working for you, does it?” the doctor commented somewhat wryly. “You’ve been in here three times in the last two weeks. Have you been sleeping properly?” he asked, pulling out a scanner and running it over Reed’s forehead.

Reed swatted the scanner away with his good hand. “I’m sleeping just fine, thank you very much. I don’t need you prescribing some form of sleep-inducing quackery for me too!” He hoisted himself off the bed, and said haughtily, “Are we done here?”

“Yes, all done. If you treat your injury with respect overnight, it will be as good as new,” the doctor said with a merry chirrup. “But if I see you with another bruise, scrape, burn or lesion in the next week, I will be prescribing some form of “quackery” for you also, Mr. Reed, and it will likely involve both me and another of my favourite multi-legged, buzzing, winged species.”

Reed shuddered and nodded curtly. That was a threat to be taken seriously. Exiting sickbay, he started instinctively to turn towards the armoury, and then hesitated, uncertain. After a moment, he turned and headed in the opposite direction.

The movie was just about to start. It was “The Princess of Arkaon”. A classic, it had won three Academy awards twenty years ago; that made it a relatively recent picture on the scale of many that had been shown on movie night over the last year or so. A combination comedy/action/science fiction/mystery/romance, it had something for everyone, with a sufficient number of firefights and explosions to be able to keep Malcolm’s attention for the duration. He settled into a chair near the window, two thirds of the way back, next to Ensign Cutler. She offered him some popcorn – “low-fat” she murmured – and he took a few kernels to be polite, using the hand that was not covered in unidentifiable slug slime.

As the opening credits rolled, he allowed his attention to wander around the room. It had been a while since he’d been to movie night; it had been some weeks since it had been offered at all, and before that, he’d not been terribly interested in the choice of mostly old American movies. He’d long suspected that Trip was involved in the selections, although he hadn’t admitted responsibility, presumably as he didn’t want people complaining about the playbill to him. However, tonight’s film was in fact British, and as such, Malcolm found himself actually looking forward to it. He spotted the chief engineer in the second row. He was leaning towards T’Pol, murmuring something no doubt as an explanation for the likely incomprehensible (to a Vulcan) goings on with which the movie opened, involving a naked grave-digger and his horse. Let him try to explain it, Malcolm chuckled to himself. She’d never understand British humour no matter how long she spent on Enterprise. He watched as the two blind men accosted the gravedigger, and smirked as the hero of the piece attempted unsuccessfully to attract their attention away from the ensuing altercation involving a parrot and a round of cheese. He proceeded to lose himself in the ridiculous, pell-mell plot that meandered halfway around the galaxy, occasionally helping himself to the popcorn that Ensign Cutler proffered to him at intervals.

Ninety minutes later, the lights brightened as the credits rolled across the screen. He stretched his arms over his head, remembering at the last minute his injured palm and wincing slightly. Cutler looked at him critically. “Another little accident in the armoury?” she asked solicitously, with only the faint corner of an upturned mouth indicating that she might be finding the situation humorous. “We’ve been seeing you in sickbay rather frequently lately,” she commented as she stood. “Maybe a bit more sleep?”

“Can’t a fellow make the occasional mistake without the whole world acting like he’s a walking insomniac?” he grumbled to himself as she slipped out the end of the aisle. He cradled the injured palm next to his stomach and headed for the door. He noticed T’Pol ahead of him, walking alone towards the lift. As usual, he was left in awe of the beauty of her form as viewed from behind. They entered the turbolift together, and he felt it incumbent upon him to strike up a conversation. “What did you think of tonight’s film, Subcommander?” he asked, politely.

She considered his question. “It was … nonsensical,” she replied, “and yet full of characters that demonstrate many of the most singular of human virtues and flaws simultaneously. When the princess chose the prince’s servant over the prince that her father had chosen for her …” She paused, apparently struck by something. “Mr. Reed,” she continued, “Have you ever felt compelled to … interact … with someone whose personality and background seemed totally incompatible with yours?”

He had a feeling he knew where this was coming from, but he was surprised that she had chosen him as a sounding board. “No – well, perhaps,” he corrected himself, recalling a particular young lady in Malaysia for whom he had developed more than a passing fancy at one point, despite evidence that her interest in him was for the most part based on an utterly romanticized notion of the life of a future Starfleet officer.

“And how did events transpire?” She seemed genuinely interested, in a clinical sort of way.

“About what you’d expect. It was a grand time, but it had no chance of really being anything – we both knew that, I suppose. She was most polite when she told me that it was over, really. Broke my heart. Still,” he paused, remembering more than one night in the summer fog, “it was remarkable while it lasted. The sort of stuff dreams are made of,” he said, and then remonstrated with himself for the overly romantic nature of his last statement as the turbolift doors opened.

“And would you enter into a relationship with her again, even knowing how it would end?” she asked, pausing at the doors.

“In a heartbeat,” he replied, surprising himself. “Because you never know. You could be wrong, and you’d spend the rest of your life wondering, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, you would,” she replied after a long moment. “Thank you, Mr. Reed”. She disappeared behind the closing doors.

He exited the turbolift at the next deck down, bumping into Trip waiting to board. “Hey Malcolm,” he said, “Enjoy the movie?”

Malcolm replied, holding the door open, “Best one so far, hopefully whoever’s been picking them out will choose quality British entertainment more often instead of that awful American tripe they’ve been showing.”

Trip raised one eyebrow and said, dryly, “Oookay, I’m sure the program committee will take that under consideration.”

Malcolm watched as the turbolift departed, towards the deck above he was sure, and then murmured, “Did you plan that one, old boy?” He shrugged and walked distractedly away, whistling an old tune that he had heard played many nights in their favourite restaurant along the wharves. Perhaps romance could be found for a princess exiled from her countrymen, with a man not of her people’s choosing, in the far flung stars. Because, after all, you never knew.

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Three people have made comments

Malcolm as romantic...I believe it.

Excellent... How very British. It's amazing that there's not more out there involving Malcom like this, he's, well, British. Bravo.

A lovely story. I'm really enjoying your writing style. I'm going to read all your other stories now. :D