Rating: PG
Warnings: DEATHFIC!
Dedication: to Linsey and Xandri, for indulging me
Notes: Stop the Clocks is by WH Auden. Everyone knows the first part, but I have always
thought the second was more poignant and painful. I thought there’s been enough sap for the
month, time to bring a darker shade of bunny.
Finally, one broke from the circle and moved forward to lay a comforting hand on his
shoulder. Trip looked over at Jon and saw him nod minutely.
It was time.
He stepped away from the glass, and Hoshi moved up to stand beside him, her pretty face
shining wet with silent tears. Trip gave her a wan smile that started her crying silently
again even as she returned the gesture. He held his arm out and she burrowed into his side
for a second, her tiny body shaking with grief and guilt. He bent his head to press a soft
kiss into her hair before letting her go. She stepped back, straightening her shoulders,
resolve on her features. Together, the three followed Travis as he cleared a path for them
into the room.
There was no coffin. Trip didn’t know if that made it easier or worse.
There were no flowers. Trip had insisted on that. Allergies had meant that Trip had never
offered him flowers before, and it seemed an insult to do so now.
There were family members, but they were seated, looking confused and insulted, several rows
back, again at Trip’s insistence. Their real family, the ones who had stuck by them through
it all, wore Starfleet uniforms and expressions of true grief as they moved silently forward
to nod their respects before taking their positions.
The memorial started with Admiral Forrest speaking, but Trip didn’t hear the words. He had
removed from his pocket a well-worn and crumpled piece of cream-coloured paper, and was
clutching it like a talisman against the truth. Beside him, Jon patted his arm once before
moving up to speak. Eyes on the page, he let his old friend’s words wash over him.
“Malcolm Reed was an exemplary officer, whose bravery, intelligence, skill, and composure
were an example to us all. But I don’t want to tell you his resume. I want to tell you
about the man I was not only honoured to serve with, but who I was also proud to call
friend…”
Trip closed his eyes, shaking slightly as he saw a thousand snap- shot images flow across
his minds’ eye as Jon’s stories triggered memory after memory.
“And now, I would ask Charles Tucker the Third to say a few words.”
No, no he didn’t want to. Because if he said the words, then it would all be horribly,
horribly true. But he rose to his feet and walked to the small dais at the front of the
room.
Because it was true.
Malcolm was dead.
He took a deep breath. “Malcolm and I were…” he hesitated, smiled, and continued. “Well,
he said we were as different as night and day. I always used to argue that night and day at
least had dawn and dusk in common.” A slight ripple moved through the crowd as all those
who had worked with the pair murmured their agreement. “But I think that’s what made what
we had so damn special. We complimented each other perfectly.” He bit his lip. “We were
better together than we could ever have dreamed of being apart.” He sighed, and stared for
a long moment at the piece of paper he still clutched in his hands.
“Malcolm loved poetry. I know not many of ya would believe that, what with that hard-assed
stare he always had on-duty, but he really did.” He stroked the fragment once more, then
slipped it into his pocket, turning his full attention to the audience. “And it was through
his enthusiasm that I found out I liked poetry too. That was what our life together was
like. Each taking the other somewhere new and interesting, every day, in a thousand
different ways.” His eyes grew unfocussed. “And I don’t know…” Sighing, he put that
thought away.
“I was gonna read you his favourite piece, but in his book there was another poem next to
it. I think it’s more…” he shrugged, unwilling to say ‘appropriate.’ Clearing his throat,
he began to recite from memory.
“Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
“Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
“He was my North, my South, my East and West,
“Goodbye, Malcolm.”
Sequel to Somewhere I Have Never Traveled. Last in the series of poetry stories.
Trip stared at his reflection in the curved glass, ignoring the muted noise behind him. The
others recognized his need for solitude and formed a loose half-circle a few paces back,
protecting him from the empty kind words of strangers.
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.”
In the audience, people shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Trip ignored them and
continued.
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.”
Leaning on the podium for support, he began the harder, truer, verses.
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
“The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.”
There was absolute silence. Trip bowed his head, his eyes closed.
Jon refused to let him go home alone, instead co-opting Hoshi and Travis to herd him into a shuttle as soon as the official service was over, flying him back down to the blue-green planet below.
It was raining as they touched down on the pad in San Fransisco, a cliché that Trip still found somewhat appropriate. He stood beside the shuttle, letting the rain roll down his face like tears, until firm hands took hold and pulled him into the waiting groundcar.
They drove, Trip staring out but not seeing the passing scenery as words and measures echoed around his head. Only when Travis turned off the engine did he realize where they were.
Inside Jon’s home, everyone moved, busying themselves with simple tasks, barely speaking to each other. Trip let Hoshi pull his wet coat off him and push him towards the couch. It seemed so surreal, like a dream.
Or a nightmare.
A snuffling noise by his feet made him look down. Porthos was there, his little tail subdued as he sniffed at his bag that Hoshi must have taken control of.
Without thinking, Trip leant over and undid the clasp, reverently removing the contents.
Porthos watched Trip as he stroked the leather cover of the folio with a tilted head. Straightening, he gave a little whine.
“Porthos?”
Trip reached down and scratched the dog between the ears. “He’s okay, Jon.”
“What have you got there, Trip?”
He looked up at Jon, turning to watch as Hoshi and Travis re-entered the room followed by Phlox and T’Pol. “It’s Malcolm’s book of poetry. He had it made especially, a gift to himself for his twenty-first birthday.” Deftly, he flipped it open to the right page. “He loved this one best.”
Hoshi came to sit on the arm of the couch, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. Pointing at the facing page, she asked, “is that the one you read today?”
“Just the first part.” He chuckled, but the sound caught in his throat. “I…I didn’t want to read the second part in front of all of them.” He looked up as his friends moved to sit around him. “I don’t think they’d really connect it with my Malcolm.”
He smiled shakily and began to read.
“O the valley in the summer where I and my John
Beside the deep river would walk on and on
While the flowers at our feet and the birds up above
Argued so sweetly on reciprocal love,
And I leaned on his shoulder; 'O Johnny, let's play':
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.”
Trip paused, images of a thousand and one away missions dancing through his mind.
“O that Friday near Christmas as I well recall
When we went to the Charity Matinee Ball,
The floor was so smooth and the band was so loud
And Johnny so handsome I felt so proud;
'Squeeze me tighter, dear Johnny, let's dance till it's day':
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.”
The argument they had about correct and proper behaviour – Trip wanting the world to know he
was in love, Malcolm wanted to keep it discrete. The problem had been solved by the simple
fact that everyone on Trip’s deck had heard what they were yelling at each other. Malcolm’s
worst fears had been proven unfounded, and they had never mentioned the argument again.
“Shall I ever forget at the Grand Opera
When music poured out of each wonderful star?
Diamonds and pearls they hung dazzling down
Over each silver and golden silk gown;
'O John I'm in heaven,' I whispered to say:
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.”
Trip stroked the well-worn edges of the leather binding, remembering how a discussion on
poetry had turned into a discussion of music, the amazing discovery that Malcolm actually
liked rhythm and blues, he and Trip staying up past midnight for over a week as they
exhausted Trip’s entire music collection.
“O but he was fair as a garden in flower,
As slender and tall as the great Eiffel Tower,
When the waltz throbbed out on the long promenade
O his eyes and his smile they went straight to my heart;
'O marry me, Johnny, I'll love and obey':
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.”
Trip had asked Malcolm to make the commitment in rhyme, his own crude poetry a pale
imitation of the verses Malcolm had loved most. But the joy in his eyes had been real as he
had accepted. They were going to announce it at the captain’s table that night. But then
there had been the emergency, the away mission, Malcolm waving to Trip casually as he
climbed into the shuttle. They had returned without him, Travis pale and Hoshi curled up in
a foetal ball in the back of the pod, her face covered in blood and her eyes filled with
guilt as she looked at Trip…
“O last night I dreamed of you, Johnny, my lover,
You'd the sun on one arm and the moon on the other,
The sea it was blue and the grass it was green,
Every star rattled a round tambourine;
Ten thousand miles deep in a pit there I lay:
But you frowned like thunder and you went away. “
Trip closed the book. “You went away.” Something deep inside him finally broke, and the
book fell to the floor as he curled up in on himself. “Oh god, Malcolm, you went away!”
And finally, Trip cried.
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