Title: Leper10

Author: sangga

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters from Andromeda, but I sometimes get 'em on cheap rental.

Email: sangga55@hotmail.com

Archive: At your pleasure – please email.

Summary: Making friends is hard to do – especially when you've got leprosy. Excuse me? How the hell did Dylan get that anyway? More importantly, how the hell is he going to get rid of it?

Note: Misspellings aren't – I'm using the Queen's English here, folks. And god, how glad I am that I'm not watching this show on network TV, where they'd be bound to programme it on at 3am or something and then edit half the eps and skip the rest and cut off abruptly in the middle of season two… All hail video.

Spoilers: Season two

Leper10

I.

The Maru. And Tyr, being his typical jovial self.

"Where?"

"There."

"Where? Oh – there. You're joking."

"No, I'm not joking. It hurts."

"Gods, man. It's a scratch."

"I know it's a scratch…"

"It's hardly bleeding."

"Do you mind?"

"I'll tell Andromeda we're heading back."

"Fine. You might as well tell her that the Thebbians aren't ready to join the Commonwealth while you're at it."

"You think?"

"I think the sharp implements thrown in our direction were a bit of a giveaway."

"Hah. I don't think they liked us."

"I don't think they liked you."

"Well, thank you."

"I dunno – maybe I should have taken along somebody less…intimidating for the first approach. Trance. Or Harper."

"You think Harper would have been as effective in fighting off their attack?"

"Point taken."

"Literally."

"Tyr, you're a riot."

"There's a spray dressing in the field kit."

"Go talk to Rommie before I change my mind and drop you off planet-side."

"You're the captain…"

II.

The Andromeda. And Rommie, efficient as always.

"So. Not a success, I take it."

"I think we can chalk that one up to 'bad timing'."

"And you believe that the timing will be right…"

"…in about another hundred years."

"When the culture has evolved beyond spears and arrows?"

"Exactly."

"A change of order, then. The High Vizier has contacted us again."

"They want to set up another meeting?"

"Correct. I can chart a course to reach Xenofon in four days."

"Sounds perfect."

"You might want to review the data on 'Fon parley protocols before we arrive."

"Rommie, are you trying to be subtle?"

"I'm just saying that you might receive a more positive response this time if you elect to be more…diplomatic."

"Hey – I'm the most diplomatic person I know."

"If you say so…"

"Rommie, don't tell me that all that bowing and scraping and excessive meandering to the point of the issue doesn't annoy the hell out of you too."

"I have limitless stores of patience."

"…if it all gets them to sign on the dotted line. Okay, fine – I'll review the protocols."

"You might want to shower first."

"More subtlety?"

"I have limitless stores of that as well."

"God help us."

III.

Showering is heaven.

He stands in front of the mirror in a towel, and pokes at the place where the spray dressing has come off. The skin is raw and oozing. The spot is uncomfortable – four ribs down, under his right arm. When he lowers his arm, it rubs. He thinks it might be infected.

Another spray dressing couldn't hurt.

IV.

The next day is busy because Harper breaks something.

"It wasn't my fault!"

"It's always your fault, Harper. Relax. I'm sure you can fix it."

"Gee, thanks."

The day after that Beka needs help repairing a power feedline on the Maru.

"Hand me the shifter? Thanks."

"Have you got the manifold coupling?"

"No. I thought you had it."

"I thought you had it."

"Wait, let me – here. Sorry."

"Gotta tell you, Beka – this is so much fun."

"Well, you volunteered."

"Actually, it reminds me of repairing cargo hoppers with my dad when I was a kid."

"Yeah, I used to do that sort of stuff with my cousin."

"Your cousin was into auto-reverse-thrust engines?"

"My cousin was into hot-wiring."

"Oh."

"Yeah. We had some fun times."

"Sounds…interesting."

"At least he never treated me like some useless girl. Here – hold this."

"You want me to pull?"

"When I turn – okay, one two, three…"

"Watch the – angh."

"I got it – are you okay?"

"S'okay…it's nothing."

"You're holding it likes it's nothing too. Show me…"

"Really – it's fine..."

"Ouch. Did you spray that?"

"Yes, forget about it, we should finish –"

"Nah, we're done. You should go see Trance about that. It looks infected."

"Thanks, I noticed. I'll help you pack up."

"I can do it. Go see Trance."

"Everyone's an expert…"

"Seriously. I can pack up on my own."

"It's a scratch, Beka."

"Go."

"Sheesh – okay, okay…"

"Dylan…"

"What?"

"You've got grease on your nose."

V.

Trance. Purple, and cross.

"Why didn't you come and see me about this before?"

"It wasn't infected before."

"Well, bad luck, 'cos this is gonna hurt."

"Great."

"Baby. Lift your arm higher."

"This is as high as it gets."

"Then maybe we should lie you down…"

"Better?"

"Much. So how did you get this again?"

"Thebbia. There were arrows involved."

"I heard."

"I dodged right when I should've dodged left and it – argh!"

"Hold still."

"Was that your idea of a distraction technique?"

"No – that was your idea of a distraction technique. You should have thought of a better distraction."

"Very funny."

"Or, next time, you could just avoid getting injured in the first place."

"I don't think this qualifies as an injury, Trance."

"If it hurts, it's an injury. It hurts, right?"

"It does now."

"Don't worry, it'll settle. I'm more concerned about the way it's inflamed out so far…"

"Well, you said it was infected."

"Right. How are you feeling generally?"

"A little…off. Not so bad."

"You have a slight fever. Any nausea?"

"Not really. Are we done?"

"In a second. I want to give you a shot…"

"Ow."

"You're welcome. Wait – you need a proper dressing…"

"Thanks."

"No problem. But I want to check it again tomorrow."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. And let me know if you start feeling worse."

"…whatever you say."

"I say, keep it dry and don't pick at it."

"No shower?"

"No shower. I think the crew will live."

"But I've got grease up to –"

"I'm sure you'll think of something."

He can think of something. But it's not as nice as a shower.

VI.

On the third day, he spends all morning rolling his eyes at the ridiculously involved document that is the 'Fon parley protocols. Rommie tells him to stop groaning or she'll leave.

He skips lunch. Then he skips dinner, but he's not sure if it's because he feels sick, or if it had something to do with the sit-up competition Tyr challenged him to in the workout room. That was kind of stupid, really.

Trance tends to agree.

"That was stupid."

"You're absolutely right."

"And you've been ignoring this, haven't you?"

"I've been…giving it my best shot."

"God. Men. Stop wriggling."

"Sorry – ah."

"Don't expect me to apologize. Dylan – this looks awful…"

"Well, don't take it personally."

"I do take it personally. You're my patient – you're supposed to get better."

"…sorry."

"Sorry doesn't cut it this time. Really. Just look at this…"

He does. He's been avoiding it. Yuck.

"Hm."

"Yeah, 'hm'. See where the skin is yellowing and eating away? That's secondary infection."

"Lovely."

"I mean, it looks like secondary infection… Wait, I need to take a scraping…"

He has to hold his breath for that.

"…you done?"

"There. Hold still, it needs a bigger dressing…"

"Thanks."

"Stop thanking me and start being sensible. This is really hurting you, isn't it?"

"Well…yeah."

"And nausea?"

"Uh…yeah, that too."

"And your fever is creeping up… I don't know. This is bothering me. If it doesn't respond to another shot I think I'll need to pull you in for observation."

"Trance, it's just a scratch –"

"No, it was a scratch. Now it's a wound. And if we don't stop the infection from spreading, it'll be a full-blown disease. Humour me, okay? If it hasn't improved by tomorrow, you need to come in and let me do a thorough scan."

"Can't."

"Dylan –"

"Hey, it's not my fault – I just can't. We meet with the 'Fon Vizier tomorrow. The ship will rendezvous mid-morning."

"Then at least come in first thing and let me check this out before the meeting."

"Trance…"

"Come on, Dylan. You don't want to be under the weather when you meet the Vizier, do you?"

"…okay."

"See, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

He rolls his eyes for the millionth time that day.

VII.

Later, he tries being sensible. Peels away a corner of the dressing and peers closer. If anything, it looks worse. He must be imagining it.

Now, it's not just uncomfortable. It's downright painful – all the way out to the side of his chest, around the back, into the armpit.

He sleeps on his left side and spends the night in dry exhaustion, keeping his arm out of the way.

VIII.

Morning comes. Tyr brings word.

"Are you alright?"

"Fine. So, what's news?"

"Well, I was going to tell you what I found out about the 'Fon High Council's latest political games, but if it's a bad time…"

"No. It's fine. Tell away."

"Alright… The Vizier's appointment was contentious – I hear there's rumbling in the ranks about what happened to his predecessor…"

"What happened?"

"Well, it looked very much like a nasty illness, but let's just say that the local assassins have always had a fondness for certain exotic substances…"

"Poison?"

"It's painful, but effective. And easy to cover up, I might add. It does breed a certain paranoia amongst the culture of the ruling elite…"

"…hence the involved meet and greet protocols. Okay, I think I get it now."

"Indeed. So if you want to go through the rituals again, I can –"

"No, no, thanks – I think I'm pretty much up to speed with the rituals."

"Well, in that case, there's only one problem left."

"And what would that be?"

"Getting you standing up and moving around. Come on. Lift yourself off that chair. I want to see that you're capable of attending this meeting."

"Tyr, if you don't mid –"

"But I do mind. Trance said I was to get you down to medical prior to the meeting, and I'm here to make sure that it happens."

"I'll get there under my own steam, if that's okay with you."

"Fine. Then show me."

"Show you what?"

"I want to see you stand up."

"…Okay. You want me to stand up? I'll…"

Breathe. Heave. Move.

"…I'll…stand up…"

Sway. Breathe.

"…there. See?"

Totter. Lean. Sway some more.

"Happy now?"

"Absolutely. And I'll be happier still if I can take my arm away without you falling down."

"Nitpicky, aren't you?"

"I'm taking you to medical."

"God, I hate arguing with Nietzcheans…"

IX.

It's time. He's stuffed full of rituals and shot up with anti-inflammatories. It's better. Really. His head is extraordinarily clear and he can't feel a thing. God bless painkillers.

Rommie is standing beside him in her best dress uniform, with instructions to nudge him gently if he forgets something or starts wobbling.

Bring on four hours of fun.

X.

Four hours of fun later and it's still not fun.

He's sitting down at the parley table getting ready for the final salutations – need to stand up for that. Damn. Everything is starting to wear a little thin around the edges when he feels a weird tearing sensation.

Too late to worry about it now.

Breathe in. Stand. Push back chair and bow. And bow again. And bow to the guy on the Vizier's left. And the guy on the right. And let them bow back. And smile, dammit.

Finally. Escort the guests to the door and do the whole parting ritual. Rommie would never tap him on the arm, that would be too obvious. She's content just to do the glaring thing and whisper out of the side of her mouth.

"Dylan."

"What?"

"You're bleeding."

"I know."

"What do you mean, you know?"

"Sh."

In ten minutes she'll be free to talk as loud as she wants, but right now he's trying to concentrate.

Staying upright. Upright.

The shuttle doors close, and his eyelids join in. When he opens them again, Rommie is holding his arm.

"Dylan –"

"Thank god that's over."

"Dylan –"

"I'd like to go back to my quarters now."

Rommie makes an executive decision.

"Come on. Let's go."

"You're taking me back to my quarters?"

"I'm taking you to medical."

"But –"

Before he can finish the thought, Trance's voice is echoing from out of nowhere.

"Dylan? I have your test results back, and I need you in medical. Right now. You're not going to believe this…"

At that moment he can believe almost anything – including the fact that the floor seems unnaturally close. Rommie straightens him up, and he believes something else.

"Dylan –"

"I believe…I believe I'm gonna fall over…"

He doesn't though – she catches him just in time.

Next chapter coming soon…