Disclaimer: Still not making any money, still not ours...
Author's Note: Big thanks to Gabi for her suggestions and The Libran Iniquity for checking our grammar and spelling. Any remaining mistakes are ours because we fiddled with it afterwards.
This fic was inspired by Pippin's "Rules" (archived at the Warp 5 Complex - wonderful story, especially for ArcherTrip fans!). The line "Archer was certain that Malcolm Reed, for example, would not be half as tolerant and charitable as Trip was over this" gave us the idea for the story, and Pippin kindly allowed us to use parts of her plotline and mention her in the Author's Note. Thanks again!
By the way, this is Slash, as in Trip and Malcolm being a couple. If you don't like that... you know the deal :).
And now, on with the story! As always, feedback is very welcome!
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Chapter 1
A little out of breath, Trip hurried up the porch steps, his right hand digging in his pocket for the keys while he balanced a groceries bag in his left. As he let himself in, his eyes fell on the clock on the wall opposite to the door, and he cursed inwardly. It was already past four o'clock. He had promised Malcolm he wouldn't be longer than half an hour, and that had been around three. He hadn't really liked the idea of leaving Malcolm alone, anyway, but had not wanted to bother Phlox yet again. And Malcolm had assured him that he would be alright until Trip came back.
Trip had been held up, though, traffic had been horrible, and on the way back he had gotten stuck in a tailback from an accident. By now, Malcolm would certainly be worrying. The thought intensified Trip's irritation. In his condition, even the overprotective, fussy worrying that was as much a part of him as the dark color of his hair, was poison for Malcolm. Phlox had made it very clear that any kind of strain, physical or mental, was to be avoided at all costs.
"Mal, I'm back!" Trip hollered in direction of the stairs and the upstairs bedroom, then steered towards the kitchen to drop off the groceries. He pushed down the door handle with his elbow and entered the room, his vision limited by the large brown bag which he subsequently dumped onto the kitchen counter. He was just about to turn around and head upstairs to check on his partner when he stopped in his tracks. Malcolm was sitting on one of the kitchen chairs, his elbows on the table and his head resting in his hands.
"Mal?" Trip asked, and took a step closer when the other man didn't answer. "Mal, what are you doin' out of bed?"
At that, Malcolm raised his head and looked at Trip. His cheeks were hollow and his eyes bleary, dark smudges underneath them, but somehow he still managed to look annoyed. A little, anyway.
"I wanted to get myself something to eat," he said in the low, rough voice that Trip was rapidly getting used to.
Trip sighed and let his hands drop at his sides. He gave Malcolm a long-suffering look, which was quite lost on the other man, since Malcolm wasn't looking at Trip anymore but was hanging his head between his shoulders, staring at the blank table top.
Looking at this picture of exhaustion and misery, Trip felt his annoyance dissipate, being replaced by the worried feeling that he was carrying around with him all the time these days. He took the few steps over to where Malcolm was sitting and put a hand on his partner's back. He could feel him shiver, despite the feverish heat that was radiating from Malcolm's body.
"Mal," he said, bending down a little to be able to put an arm around Malcolm's shoulders. "Mal, you know that you're not supposed to get up. 'Specially not on your own."
Malcolm didn't move as he answered. "I was hungry," he said.
Trip sighed and nodded. "Yeah, well, you should've waited for me. I'd have brought you somethin'."
When Malcolm didn't answer, Trip straightened up a little. His eyes fell on Malcolm's feet, which were bare on the tiled kitchen floor, and he pressed his lips together, wishing that he had sent for groceries, after all.
You'd think that I should be able to leave him alone for an hour, Trip thought, some of the irritation returning. Every time I do, though, he's out of bed quicker than you can say "bullheaded".
Trip knew, though, that Malcolm was not doing it to get to him, or to prove that he could. Malcolm simply hated being confined to inactivity. Ever since Phlox had announced the verdict of strict bed rest three weeks ago, Malcolm's spirits had been in the dumps, and he had been trying to hide behind a sarcastic and gruff demeanor. Which most of the time lacked in conviction, since he wasn't feeling well enough to make it convincing. But somehow, Malcolm always found the energy to haul himself out of bed, no matter how badly he was doing. And although Trip had tried everything he could think of, from coaxing to threatening to pleading, he couldn't seem to get through to him.
Trip surveyed the room that was still in the exact same state as he had left it, then looked back at his partner. "Did you have somethin' to eat?" he asked. Malcolm silently shook his head.
Trip had guessed as much. "Do you still want somethin'?" he asked.
Again, Malcolm's head moved in a negating gesture. Trip sighed again and for a moment considered telling Malcolm exactly how irresponsible and downright stupid he was behaving, then swallowed his frustration. He knew that at the moment, all his lecture would get him was a half-hearted, bleary drop-dead glare. Malcolm was quite obviously not in any condition for a conversation about his attitude towards his health.
"Well," he said instead, "then why don't you get yourself back in bed?"
Malcolm didn't move, however, but stayed as he was. Trip heard him say something, but didn't catch the exact words. Crouching down beside him, he put a hand on Malcolm's thigh and looked up at his partner's face.
"Come again?"
"I can't," Malcolm said, pronouncing the words very clearly. Underneath the testiness in his voice, Trip could hear frustration and a certain helplessness. He sighed and for a moment closed his eyes. Then he straightened up again and laid an arm around Malcolm.
"I'll help you," he said. "C'mon, Mal."
Slowly and awkwardly, Malcolm staggered to his feet, heavily leaning on Trip for support. Trip wrapped his arms around his partner and for a moment held him close, painfully aware of how much weight Malcolm had lost in the short time since he had fallen ill.
Trying not to let Malcolm see what he was thinking, he gently nudged him towards the door, and slowly, the two of them made their way into the hallway and began climbing the stairs.
When they were halfway up, Malcolm was breathing heavily, and Trip saw droplets of sweat running down his temples. For a moment, he considered simply picking him up and carrying him the rest of the way, but he knew that Malcolm would never forgive him if he did that. Instead, Trip stopped their ascent for a moment so Malcolm could catch his breath.
"Okay?" he asked after a moment, when he thought that the trembling of Malcolm's shoulders had subsided somewhat. Malcolm swallowed and nodded, and they resumed their journey.
When they finally reached the bedroom, Trip almost stumbled upon entering. The reason was the third inhabitant of their house, a huge, black, shaggy dog named Johnson, who followed the habit of sleeping on the rug right behind the bedroom door. As Trip had entered, Johnson hadn't moved fast enough and Trip, not seeing where he was going, had almost fallen over him.
Wrapping his arms tighter around Malcolm, Trip fought for balance and after a moment regained his footing.
"Get outta the way, Johnny," he said and the dog, who had already moved aside, minced backwards a little further and looked at him with his red-rimmed, slightly dopey eyes. Trip didn't pay him any further attention and steered Malcolm towards the bed that was standing in the middle of the room.
As soon as Malcolm had lain down - or rather, dropped onto the mattress - he turned onto his side and closed his eyes, his breathing harsh and heavy. Trip spread the blankets over him and made sure that Malcolm's feet were tucked in under the covers. As his fingers brushed over the icy toes, he shook his head.
"Why didn't you at least put on your slippers?" he asked, looking up. At first, Malcolm didn't answer, and Trip thought that he was already asleep, but then he heard him mumble something, and strained his ears to catch the words.
"You couldn't find them?" he asked, and looked down, scanning the floor for Malcolm's slippers. Sure enough, they weren't in their usual place right next to the bed. As Trip turned his head, his eyes fell on something brown and tattered that was lying in the corner next to the door. He squinted, and sighed as his suspicion was confirmed.
"Johnson," he said sternly, turning his eyes onto the dog that was still standing next to the door, and pointed to the shredded remains of the slipper. "That's the third pair."
Johnson followed his finger with a sleepy gaze, then looked back at him, and Trip was pretty sure that he was giving him the canine version of an indifferent shrug.
He sighed, and turned back to Malcolm, sitting down next to him on the bed. Malcolm's breathing had quieted down, and Trip was pretty sure that he had already fallen asleep. It never took him long when he had exerted himself.
Trip reached out and ran a hand through Malcolm's sweaty hair, studying his partner's exhausted face.
Why d'you have to keep doing that, he thought, knowing that the answer was simply that Malcolm couldn't help himself. At the best of times, Malcolm considered sleeping a necessary evil, and spent as little time as possible doing it. And staying in bed day and night, even if he was sick, was something that was nearly impossible for him. Thinking that a person like him should have fallen ill with a disease for which the only cure was, as Phlox had put it, "moving as little as possible", seemed a rather cruel twist of fate to Trip.
Four weeks ago, when Malcolm had returned from a security conference on Jupiter Station, Trip had known that something was wrong. Malcolm, of course, had paid his runny nose and aching joints not the slightest bit of attention, and Trip had figured that it was probably a simple case of the flu which would pass on its own eventually. However, Malcolm had not gotten better, as Trip had expected; his condition had worsened, and when after week Trip had suggested that they call Phlox for a check-up, Malcolm had offered only feeble resistance.
They had taken the short trip to San Francisco where Phlox worked at Starfleet Medical, and the Denobulan doctor had examined Malcolm. His diagnosis had surprised and worried Trip. Malcolm had obviously caught an alien bug on his trip to Jupiter Station, something called the Andorian Picarno Virus, which was wreaking havoc with his immune system. On Andoria, as Phlox had told them, an APV infection was quite common and easily dealt with, but due to the different physiologies of Andorians and humans, the Andorian cure would not work for Malcolm. As it seemed, however, the virus fed on certain hormones which were secreted by the adrenal glands and according to Phlox, the virus could be "starved out" if Malcolm managed to keep the value of hormone release on the lowest of possible levels.
At that point in Phlox' explanations, Malcolm had grown very suspicious, and had asked the doctor how he was supposed to control the output of some gland of whose existence he had not even been aware up until then. Phlox' answer had not made him any happier, since the doctor had told him that aside from regular medication, strict bed rest was in order.
That had been three weeks ago. Ever since, Trip was trying to convince Malcolm to follow the doctor's orders and stay in bed, and Malcolm was trying... well, he was trying to get by without either being driven out of his mind by boredom or losing it because of frustration.
Trip felt sympathy for his partner, since he knew how much Malcolm hated being sick, but he couldn't help getting a little mad at him from time to time. Phlox had not held back about the possible consequences of an APV infection in humans - if allowed to flourish, the virus would eventually do irreparable damage to the immune system, and in the worst of cases the disease would end in Malcolm dying from a simple flu. Terrestrian flu.
Trip sighed, and pulled back the hand that had been resting on Malcolm's arm. He knew he shouldn't be doing this, sitting here and brooding. It was of no use to anyone, and it did nothing for Trip's state of mind, either.
He got up and stepped out into the hallway, holding the door open and flicking his tongue. "C'mon, Johnny," he whispered, and the huge black dog that had lain back down on the rug awkwardly scrambled to his paws and trotted towards him, tail wagging. Trip smiled. Johnson wasn't the brightest of dogs, but he did have an internal clock that could take on that of a Vulcan any time. He always seemed to know exactly when dinner time was coming around.
TBC...
Please let us know what you think so far!
