Tag to The Lotus Eater. Episode summary: Scotty has been searching the Aegean for Kelly, missing for ten days. He finally finds him, whereupon the latter announces he's giving up the spy game. The newfound decision turns out to be due to bottles of drugged ouzo fed to Kelly by Irena, a beautiful Greek girl who is an unwilling pawn of Sorge, an intelligence trader who's using the drugs to pleasantly pump Kelly (through Irena) for secrets. Scotty gets the government's scientists to concoct an antidote, finds his way into the villa where Kelly is staying with the girl and injects him with the cure. The tag has them looking out over the Acropolis from their hotel window: "It's beautiful."
For Allthinky, who knows why; and Leviathan, always.
It's wild. One minute he's standing there next to Scotty, admiring the Acropolis from their hotel window – incredible, they actually got a room with a decent view – and the next Kelly's crumpled on the floor, face mashed against the rough carpet hundreds of fire-ants stinging his cheek, puking his guts out. The pain in his stomach is unspeakable, and he pounds a fist on the floor in agony, only it splatters into the pool of vomit, and he can't even feel disgust, he just grits his teeth, trying not to make a sound, his hand slipping and sliding against the bumps of the rough carpet under a slick layer of wet vomit in a desperate search for something to brace him against the vicious onslaught from within.
There's a deep voice above him, but for the life of him he can't make out words, then a presence on the floor beside him, and he feels himself being bodily lifted. He tries to help, really he does, but there's a wire wrapped around the ropes of his intestines, cutting them to pieces he moans, unable to focus. He's suddenly freezing, teeth chattering in the arctic chill; the only warmth he can feel is where Scotty's arms are lifting him.
"'m—sorry," he chokes out.
"Mm-hmm…" Scotty's manhandling him somewhere, where he's not sure.
"I'm sorry…" he repeats. He wants Scotty to know…
"Mm-hmm..."
The cramping eases slightly, and he swallows – nobody ever died from vomiting, but just in case, he has to get this said – "sorry I… let myself be drugged—like a chump…"
Scotty sits him down on … the bed? …and strips his soiled T-shirt off him, wiping the worst of the vomit off his hand with it. "Mm-hmm."
He's shaking harder, and Scotty puts a warm sweater on him, pulling his leaden arms through the sleeves. It just makes him feel guiltier. "Fell for it—stupid trick…"
"Mm-hmm."
His head comes up. "You're not making me feel better, y'know!"
"Mm-hmm." His vision is blurry, but Scotty's strained smile is obvious now.
"Oh, that's nice…" he dimly registers being bundled in blankets, his legs lifted, pillows soft against his back, "…I'm dyin' here and you're just rubbing my face in it, man…" He gasps as the cramping returns, something rasping over the periphery of his consciousness - a damp towel cleaning the vomit off his hands and face. But even its softnessis steel wool grating against his skin, suddenly raw and tingling, unable to bear being touched, and he struggles, although motion makes him dizzy, batting the towel away. "Don't…"
"Yeah, whatever you say, man." Scotty seems to understand, as the painful pressure lifts. Kelly hears a tling as the phone is picked up, his partner's footsteps padding into the bathroom, black grass snake telephone wire trailing behind him. Stay, he wants to say, but that would be cowardice, so he doesn't.
His hearing is hypersensitive; all his senses seem heightened, the colors jumping off the walls, the skrrr-click, skrrr-click of the phone's dial rolling back into place, the water-smell of the wetness of the towel, the touch of the sheets and blankets on his body – warmer now, warmer…
"I don't care if he's busy. Get him on the horn now." The voice floats into his hearing, in the strange non-space he's in. "…instructions…" Now, that should mean something. He drifts a bit, floating on the soothing sound of the voice, and is only jerked back to awareness by shouting.
"No, I can't let him sweat it out! If there's something you can do, I need it done now! …You can interpret it however you want." The words scuttle like spiders over a smooth, white sheet of milky glass. "I'm telling you, he's hurting bad. Yeah, I'm sure…" The skittering voice becomes cold, dangerous. "If you ever say that again, I promise you'll regret it."
A cramp hits, and Kelly curls around himself, too weak to stop the groan that's forced from him. He buries his face in the pillows, legs kicking helplessly in the blankets, as the shout echoes from behind the closed door, "No. …What I said. Because he's in no state to be left alone! …No, he can't 'manage' …I said no! You just send one of your lab assistants over here with the serum!"
He wishes the voice wasn't so angry. But there's not much he can do, burned and abraded on all sides with agony, riding out the cramps, breathing and savoring the sweet instant between the sick, poisonous pains. This must be what giving birth feels like, he thinks, and giggles hysterically.
"Glad you're finding something to laugh about," the low voice comes from close by.
The cramp recedes, and Kelly finds the energy to look over at Scotty. He's in the chair next to the bed, though Kelly's vision is too blurred to see his expression.
"Scotty?" He shudders, chilled again. His sweatshirt is soaked. When did he sweat so much?
The hand reaches out gingerly to pull the blanket up around him. The touch doesn't hurt as much as before; in fact, it's kind of comforting. "You're all wet," mutters his partner.
"Insult a sick man?" he pants. "That's… really low… Herman."
A surprised, pleased snort. "Can't be too sick if you're still runnin' your mouth." He's too limp to do much, but he tries to help as Scotty changes his drenched shirt again, his movements growing more confident as he realizes Kelly's skin isn't hypersensitive for the moment, and settles him back against the pillows. Feeling slightly better, Kelly reaches for the glass of water his partner's brought him.
Scotty bats his hand away. "I don't think you get it. You need to replace lost fluids in your body, man, not on your shirt." Doggedly, Kelly raises his hand again, steadying it with his left when he realizes it's doing an embarrassing shimmy. "Hoo, boy. All right, all right, gimme a second, here."
The edge of the bed dips, Scotty settling next to him. A gentle hand slips behind his head, and he feels the glass touch his mouth. He wraps both hands around Scotty's and drains it, the water wonderfully cool against his parched throat. He gives a little sigh of contentment. "You, sir…" he shivers, "are definitely hired."
"I get Tuesdays off."
"Why Tuesdays?"
"Because of the Tuesday Festival, man! Didn't you ever hear of the Tuesday festival?"
"I must admit that my knowledge…"
His gut twists, and he groans and turns away from Scotty, flinging himself over the side of the bed barely in time to send the water spewing all over the carpet.
It's the worst cramp yet, the sick pain a living thing attacking, and he can't stay on his back, scrambling to his knees on top of the bed to escape the pull that threatens to tear his intestines into bloody pieces. It grabs him by the middle, clawing at him; with a gasp, he jackknifes, bent double, crouching with his face pressed into the mattress, letting it absorb the small sounds he can't help making. Some he-man, he thinks, chagrined; why can't he control himself?
Out of the corner of his eye he glimpses Scotty, hovering close but afraid to touch him. He doesn't like seeing Scotty so distressed. "I'm not—taking this—lying down," he grins, though he suspects it comes out as a bit of a grimace.
"I can see that," comes the riposte, though Scotty's voice is rather ragged. "Y'know, I can hold the Tuesday festival on Wednesdays, if Tuesday makes you that upset."
He bites down on a groan and writhes, nearly falling, and Scotty reaches out for him. There's a welcome heat on his back – a warm hand, distracting him for a lifesaving instant from the pain – and wrapping his arms around himself, fingers desperately digging into his stomach, Kelly tries to hold on to the sensation of warmth on his chilled back, Scotty's other hand gripping his shoulder tightly, preventing him twisting off the bed onto the floor.
There's a respite for a brief instant, and he gasps for breath. Coming to himself, he realizes he's still kneeling on the bed, Scotty holding onto him as he dry-heaves. The pain returns, bitter acid eating at him, and he clamps down on a thin whine that escapes his throat, peripherally conscious of Scotty guiding him down from his crouch into a sitting position in bed. He can't maintain it, though, instead curling up on his side, away from his partner, hiding his grimace. "And this-boys and girls-is the reason you should never start down the slip..." Kelly pants for a second, "the slippery slope of addiction." He tries to laugh, but what comes out is more like a sob.
"Kel. Kel." The voice is close by his ear, Scotty's presence warm against his back. "Just hang in there, man. The doc's sending something over to get you through the worst of it. You're gonna feel better soon, okay? Hmm? Okay, Hobey?"
He wants to say yes, he wants to say thank you, he wants to say something. But the agony increases, it knifes through him again and again, and he grunts, tears of pain pricking his eyes. He hates being this helpless but he's—well—helpless… "Dammit!" he grunts, clawing at his own guts – he needs five hands to grab at all the parts that hurt—
"Easy, man, easy." Kelly feels Scotty slip an arm around his waist, laying a strong hand flat against his cramping stomach, and the warmth and pressure do help, a little.
Kelly shakes his head, trying to shrug off Scotty's hand; he doesn't deserve this kindness, he doesn't like being helpless, he hates to impose, and this mess is all his own damn fault, anyway. "Man, you don't have to…" he gasps.
"Kel."
"Y—eah?"
"Shut up."
He takes a shuddering breath. Scotty seems to realize that his touch is helping, because he splays his fingers and rubs fractionally, keeping up the firm pressure, not trying to move Kelly but just sandwiching his midriff between his warm hands, his right hand pressed against the small of Kelly's back, his left soothing the tortured stomach muscles.
There's a respite. Kelly slumps, boneless, as the pain recedes. "Duke," he begins, but has to clear his scratchy throat before he can speak.
"Yeah?" Scotty's voice is far too gentle, far too raw.
"I gotta tell you what's really wrong with me."
He feels the hands still, Scotty's body tense. "Yeah, Kel?"
The tenderness in Scotty's voice is touching, but the fear in it, he has to do something about. "I didn't tell you before, y'know, 'cause I didn't want you to know, see."
"Spit it out, man!"
"I'm…" He makes a show of swallowing. "I'm pregnant."
Scotty snorts, helplessly. It takes him a couple of tries to speak, and Kelly chuckles, too. "So who's the vile seducer?"
Another cramp hits, but the pressure's helping. Through a gasp, he manages to choke out, "It might be the lovely Irena."
Scotty's hands tighten against his middle as he realizes Kelly's hurting again. "And you let her just walk off without asking for child support?"
"Well—" It's getting bad. "—you know—she might ask for a paternity test…"
"I can feel the baby kicking," Scotty quips grimly, massaging with his thumbs, desperately trying to ease Kelly's pain.
"What do you think we should name—ohh…"
"Hey, hey, man, easy. Try and take deep breaths." Scotty abandons the banter and bends over him, the firm pressure of his hands never slackening against the agonizing cramps in Kelly's stomach and back. It's so bad that Kelly can't refuse Scotty's help anymore; it's taking all his strength just to keep from crying out. "He'll be here with the medicine any minute now. Don't talk, c'mon. Shh."
He lets Scotty help him, and breathes.
Kelly lies back limply in bed as Scotty withdraws the plunger, pressing a tissue against the injection site. "You'll be right as rain in no time," Scotty says cheerfully, in a passable imitation of a family doctor.
"Thanks, doc. Will I be able to play the piano again?"
"Depends. I think the neighbors chopped it up for firewood, see, on account of your playing curdles the milk."
He snorts, breathing a laugh. With the relief from pain has come slight euphoria and overwhelming fatigue, and he can barely keep his eyes open. "I'm gonna sack out a while, 'kay, man?"
"Go for yourself, Hobey."
He grins, and is out like a light.
When he wakes, feeling much more human, it's dark out. Bathed in the soft glow of the bedside lamp, Scotty's in an armchair he's pulled up next to him, feet propped up on Kelly's bed, reading. "How long was I out?"
Scotty looks up, and rises, laying his book aside. "Couple hours. How you doin'?"
Kelly swallows. "Better, thank you, Florence Nigh—Nighter—ter—tingale." He stumbles on the words, his dry tongue feeling like someone's stuffed a towel into his mouth.
His partner's already standing beside him, glass of water in hand. He reaches for it, but Scotty keeps hold of it. "Slow down there, Chester."
"What? I need a password?"
"Grumpy. Now I know you're feelin' better," Scotty smiles. "Nope, I just thought," he gestures to Kelly's admittedly unsteady hands, "you might like to end up drinking that water instead of wearing it."
"Again? I'm not a five-year-old," he says in some irritation.
"Are we calculating in terms of calendar years, or in terms of smarts? Because…"
"Wiseguy." He reaches out decisively, snags the glass, aims for his mouth, misses, and splashes the water all down his front. Scotty's laughter does not salvage his pride. "Gloating doesn't become you, man," Kelly mutters darkly, trying to shake out his sopping shirt.
"C'mon, Mr. Independence." Scotty flips the covers aside on his own bed. "Time to move house."
He looks down at his drenched sweatshirt, suddenly conscious of the chill in his chest and stomach, noticing for the first time that not only his hair and pajamas but the bedclothes above and below him are soaked, and decides that giving in without being needled to death is the better part of valor.
It galls Kelly to be such a burden, and he tries to help as Scotty strips him out of his wet clothes and pulls fresh pajamas onto him, but when he finds he's hindering more than helping, he eventually has to concede chagrined defeat. His limbs are clumsy, and his vision… "Uh, Dobbsie?"
"Mm-hmm?" Scotty places an arm firmly around him – and why his knees should be unable to support him is just one of the injustices of fate – and helps him into the other twin bed.
"Did they say anything about…" He has to swallow down a chill of fear. "I'm kind of seeing everything fuzzy, here."
Scotty makes a grunt that's usually accompanied by him slapping his forehead, except he's got his hands full. "Oh, sorry, man. They told me about that. It won't last, don't worry. Something about fine muscle control and your ability to focus. It'll go when the last of that… stuff… leaves your bloodstream. Shouldn't be more'n a few hours."
Kelly leans back against the pillows, weak with relief. He doesn't want to be seen as giving in too easily, though. "A few hours?" he grumps. "What am I supposed to do with myself all that time?"
"Do not tempt me, Herman."
"Wiseguy."
"You could get some rest."
"I've had some rest."
"Mm-hmm." Scotty gave him what Kelly called his 'I-can-see-you're-deliberately-acting-up-but-I'll-humor-you-just-this-once' look. "Well, what would you do if you could focus? Watch TV?"
In point of fact, he actually would like to sleep, but he's honor bound to keep up the act, now he's started it. "I coulda gotten a start on the new Fleming. It was right on top, in my suitcase."
"Your suitcase."
"My suitcase. Is the term foreign to you or..."
"The suitcase you lost somewhere between Athens, where you were supposed to meet me, and Santorini?"
Kelly flops back with a groan that has nothing to do with pain.
His partner chuckles gently, and picks up the novel he's been reading. "Well, Mr. Gutenberg, would you settle for From Russia With Love?"
Scotty's offering to read to him. A wonderful sensation steals over Kelly, but all he does is grunt grudgingly. "Desperate times call for desperate measures."
He has the feeling that Scotty sees right through him as his partner settles back into the armchair, turning it to face him and stretching his legs comfortably out next to Kelly's feet, flipping to his place in the book. "Okay, where… Ah. 'In every large business, there is one man who is the office tyrant and bugbear and who is cordially disliked by all the staff.' Oh, I didn't know you'd met Fleming, man…"
"Cut the editorial comments, Mr. Hearst, and just read the book," he mutters, settling deeper into the pillows.
"This individual performs an unconsciously important role by acting as a kind of lightning conductor for the usual office hates and fears. In fact, he reduces their disruptive influence by providing them with a common target. The man is usually the general manager, or the Head of Admin. He is that indispensable man who is a watchdog over the small things-petty cash, heat and light, towels and soap in the lavatories, stationery supplies, the canteen, the holiday rota, the punctuality of the staff. He is the one man who has real impact on the office comforts and amenities and whose authority extends into the privacy and personal habits of the men and women of the organization…"
Borne on the rhythms of Scotty's voice, Kelly slips quickly and easily into wonderfully restful sleep.
Kelly wakes to the pale gold light of dawn. But what he notices first is not the time of day, but the overwhelming sensation of being himself again.
He blinks, stretching. His hands are his own, not clumsy paddles. His muscles respond to his commands, and his head is clear – something it hasn't been since… well, since this whole mess started. You never appreciate your health till you've been sick, he thinks ruefully, but the instant of contemplation is buried in the sheer wonderfulness of being back.
Still enjoying being human again, he blinks, looking round. The curtains are drawn, but the light is quite sufficient to see that the outlines and silhouettes of the furniture are crisp and clear. His eyes can focus, and he closes them for an instant in sheer gratitude.
With the absence of sight comes smell; it's another sense that seems to have taken a hike these past two weeks. He inhales eagerly. The fresh, invigorating breeze of early morning is coming through the open window, dispelling the smell of disinfectant...
Disinfectant? Oh, hell. He remembers throwing up all over the... Kelly crosses over to the window. There's a damp, clean patch on the carpet where someone obviously cleaned up the disgusting mess. He hopes Scotty called the chambermaid - he'd be mortified if his partner cleaned it up himself.
He glances fondly over at the sheet-draped lump on the twin bed next to his, snoring softly, dead to the world. Good. Let him sleep. He needs it. What Kelly needs is a shower. And a change of clothing. Oh, and...
Well, how about that.
For the first time in nearly two weeks, Kelly is hungry.
Now he knows he's finally over his dark, drug-soaked days. Kelly stretches, touching his toes, then drops to the floor and does a few pushups for the sheer joy of it. His arms wobble, and he drops, ruefully; so, maybe the weakness will take a little longer to shake than he thought. But hey, as long as he starts moving, he knows he can get back in shape. Maybe he and Scotty can go for a run later. But first, breakfast. Hmm. After he showers, he could possibly wake Scotty and they could go down to breakfast together. Or...
A smile steals across Kelly's face. He has a better idea.
Scotty blinks sleepily awake. He barely has time to process where and who he is before there's an annoyingly loud voice in his ear. "Rise and shine!"
The sun is battling the heavy curtains, so it's long past dawn. Kelly, is his next conscious thought.
Only Kelly's not in his sickbed; he's standing by Scotty's head, looking far more cheerful than he usually does, in fact than anyone has a right to be so early in the morning. Scotty's barely pulled himself up to a seated position in bed when Kelly's placed a breakfast tray in his lap. "Here you are," Kelly says in a tone of patently false concern.
"To what do I owe this pleasure?" he frowns, scanning his partner for any signs of drug-induced dementia. Still a little pale, but there's no comparison with the desperate straits of yesterday – plus, he was well enough to go get food - Scotty notices another tray on the table across the room - so it can't be too bad...
"Well, it was only fair to get you breakfast in bed..." Scotty opens his mouth to say that there's no quid pro quo between them, or something equally noble, when Kelly goes on, "...you know, the way you've been sick and all."
He looks suspiciously up at his smug and very healthy-looking partner. "I've been sick?"
Kelly seats himself on the edge of Scotty's bed and peers deep into his eyes, tone positively dripping with sweetness and concern. "Oh, yes, Alexander. Don't you remember being sick in bed?"
He raises his eyebrows. "It seems to have slipped my mind. I was sick, huh?"
"You were given the most terrible drugs. I had such a time taking care of you."
He doesn't know whether to laugh, or leap on Kelly and strangle him. "Oh, you did, did you."
"Certainly." Kelly reaches out and places a hand on Scotty's brow in mock-solicitude, barely suppressing his snicker as Scotty bats it away. "I ran myself completely ragged, dear. Staying up all night... reading to you..."
In a flash, Scotty realizes what Kelly's doing, and finds he's starting to blush. "Pipe down."
"Giving you your medicine..."
"Pipe down already!"
Kelly's delighting in his discomfiture. "Changing your clothes, you poor, poor thing... cleaning up after you..."
"Get this breakfast tray off me so I can punch you in the mouth."
"With your delicate health? I don't recommend any strenuous activity."
Scotty narrows his eyes. "I see."
"Yes, indeed, sir, I am so glad that you see, because in your fragile state of health..."
"Good, good. Seeing as I'm the one who's been sick, I'm sure you won't mind writing the report."
Kelly's blank stare is enough to ruin Scotty's poker face, and he has to grab the breakfast tray to prevent it falling off the bed with his laughter. Vengeance is mine.
"I can't write the report, man," Kelly says. "What am I supposed to put in there?"
"All that wonderful, wonderful monolog you were giving me back there. You were saying I was sick, weren't you?"
"Aw, where's your sense of humor? You can be a real drag sometimes..."
But even as he plays Kelly, Scotty knows he's going to be writing at least half the report. After all, Kelly's been sick; and looking at Kelly's puppy-dog eyes, still a little bloodshot, sparkling with warmth and friendship in his sunken cheeks, Scotty thinks it wouldn't be so bad to let him win. There's no law against being emotionally blackmailed, sometimes.
Only sometimes.