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"Brilliant," Malcolm muttered after a long moment. His face was pale and taut. He staggered back to his bench and dropped down on it wincing slightly.

Trip watched him settle down, before making his own careful way to his place.

It was only a few minutes since they had been lying exactly like this, across from each other; yet it seemed like a whole lot of time had passed, or that they were not the same persons as before. Before they had been just sick; now they were dangerously perched on top of the abyss, aware of its shuddering presence and that they might have to take the big jump into it.

Trip felt strangely numb, almost unable to wrap his mind around the idea that in a matter of minutes such heavy clouds could have gathered on the horizon of his life; and that in a matter of hours he may be...

Dammit! To hell with Malcolm's likes and dislikes: he had no intention of spending what might be his last hours in grim silence, of feeling dead before time.

"I miss the sounds," he said resolutely, in fact almost challengingly. He cast a wary glance to the other side. Malcolm's eyes were closed. When no response came, he went on, "On Enterprise there is the hum of the warp engine, which is so constant that ya almost don't hear it any more – except maybe when something is wrong; but on Earth… I'm not only talkin' about birds chirpin', or the sound of the sea an' all that." He paused for a beat. "I dunno, a door banging in the wind, or the noise of traffic, or… a baby cryin'. Whatever. There are so many different sounds, on Earth, which we don't have here. You get to miss them after a while." He bit his lip and dared, "I guess you don't, if you're so fond of silence."

"One does not necessarily exclude the other," Malcolm replied quietly.

There was no irritation in his voice; Phlox's news – it seemed – had made a difference. There were bigger worries now than shutting him up. Quite unexpectedly, though, Malcolm went on, offering a few thoughts of his own.

"Silence can be precious," he said, blinking his eyes open, though they remained fixed on the ceiling. "I doubt many of the great discoveries, great works of literature, or great flashes of inspiration would have been accomplished in noise. But I'll grant you that there is nothing like a sound to re-create a memory, bring one back to a spot or time. Thus I can well believe that you could miss Earth's sounds."

"But do you miss anythin'?" Trip insisted, encouraged by this unexpected spurt of loquaciousness. He had a sudden urge to lay bare his friend's well-hidden feelings; rip the layers of protective reticence open and expose the throbbing heart he knew he'd find underneath. Hell, if these turned out to be their last hours, he wanted to spend them sharing something meaningful.

The pause lasted long enough for Trip to hold his breath. But the words that followed allowed him to release it.

"If you really must know, I miss the clap of thunder and a good downpour," Malcolm admitted, darting him a cautious look. "Ever since I was a child I've been fascinated by storms, found them awe-inspiring," he expounded. "All that energy, the unleashing of nature's force... It's a wonderful, if terrifying sight. One that has always given me that shot of fright and exhilaration that I hate and love at the same time. I suppose it's the same feeling I get in situations of danger."

That was interesting. Worryingly revealing, in fact. "You actually like being in dangerous situations?" Trip asked, intrigued and troubled at the idea.

There was a pause.

"Not quite," Malcolm unhurriedly replied. "Although I won't deny that danger holds a measure of excitement that is irrefutably attractive. Like a void: if you look long enough into it, against all reason you almost feel like taking the plunge."

"Is that why you chose your profession? To get that shot of adrenaline?"

Malcolm let out a soft huff. "Could be," he murmured. "One of the reasons. Certainly not the main one."

Trip shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position – an impossible feat. The benches in decon were even harder than the bio beds. He wondered whether Malcolm's butt was totally insensitive; the man was so damn still. "You know, I think the database might contain the recording of a thunderstorm," he said. "Come to think of it, it might contain the recording of quite a few other sounds."

Malcolm let out another, this time dismissive, huff. "It wouldn't be the same thing as being there, standing face up under the pouring water, with your dripping clothes clinging to you, feeling the wind threatening to sweep you away, seeing the lightning split the sky, waiting for the clap of thunder that follows, wondering if the next burst of energy will not incinerate you."

It was a good thing the man had his gaze on the ceiling; for if Trip, as a Floridian, had initially enjoyed the recollection of something he knew very well, his eyes had grown wider with every word and he was now looking at Malcolm as he would a lunatic. "You're not tellin' me that that's what you normally do, in a thunderstorm, are ya?" he finally asked, uneasily.

There was an awkward pause. "I have on occasion, during a summer storm," Malcolm admitted quietly. Probably realising how that sounded, to justify himself he added, "It's a great feeling. Like when you wake up at night with a storm raging outside, rattling the windows, pelting the roof with a rhythmic hail."

He shivered visibly and hugged his shoulders, and Trip knew it wasn't because of the memory of standing dripping wet in a storm. "You ok?" he asked, already knowing the answer. But this time it wasn't the standard Lieutenant Reed reply.

"I believe I'm developing a fever."

Finally summoning the energy to do so, Trip pulled to a sitting position, scrunching his eyes closed for a moment before reaching to the foot of the bench and grabbing a couple of blankets from the pile that was there. He silently tossed one across to the other bench, and spread the second open as he lay back down. He had been getting a few shivers too.

"Every time I've been caught in a storm it's scared the hell out of me," he drawled, pulling his blanket close around his shoulders. "Once I was out campin' with friends, and we had pitched our tents near a river that swelled dangerously. Not an experience I'd care to repeat."

"Nature at its worst can make you feel very small. But that's part of the beauty of it."

Turning on his side, Malcolm burrowed into his own blanket, looking ready and willing to fall back into his beloved silence; so Trip racked his brain for another thread of conversation; anything to keep their voices filling the oppressing room, anything to keep at bay the disturbing thoughts his mind threatened to conjure up.

"What was the worst thing you had to do in your life?"

Malcolm's grey eyes narrowed under the slight frown that creased his brow. "What do you mean?" he enquired with a long-suffering sigh.

"Somethin' you really hated but you had to do."

A soft but mirthless laugh floated his way. "That's a difficult question to answer. I've had to do many things that I really didn't like."

The hard core of bitterness was all too apparent, re-awakening Trip's curiosity about his friend's past, that well-protected past before the moment Archer had chosen Malcolm to be Enterprise's Armoury and Security Officer. Trip didn't quite think the man hadn't known any happiness; but had a feeling that happiness in Malcolm's early existence had been kind of like a very special cake, prepared on rare occasions and to be enjoyed in small portions. One thing he felt sure of was that on this ship Malcolm had found more happiness than he had on Earth.

"But actually they all boiled down to the same bloody thing," Malcolm went on dryly. "Having to pretend to be what I was not; having to step into clothes that didn't quite fit me. When you do it long enough, without knowing you end up growing into the model you're given to conform to, and then you start wondering who you really are, if something of your true self hasn't died in the process, and that is…" Meeting Trip's perplexed eyes, he faltered and tightened his lips before lowering his gaze.

Trip looked for something defusing to say, one of his carefree comments that could set a lighter mood, but his mind was a giddy void. How could anything with Malcolm go so deep? The worst things he himself could think of, which he had truly hated, were biology class in school or having to keep his quarters in perfect order during Starfleet Academy. Those suddenly sounded horribly insignificant, almost insulting in comparison to Malcolm's philosophical ramblings. He dearly hoped his friend wouldn't feel he had to reciprocate the question.

But instead the man darted him yet another glance, this one unreadable, and murmured flatly, and with the slightest hint of annoyance, "I'm sorry. Must be this virus. It's making me rather too chatty." He pulled his blanket up over his chin, hiding under it.

"Uh, no, it's ok," Trip stammered. "I like talking… Well, you know, I don't like silence…"

"Right..."

The awkward moment seemed never to end. Then Phlox appeared behind the glass again. Archer was beside him, and Trip knew immediately the news wasn't good. He pushed to a sitting position; out of the corner of the eye he saw Malcolm do the same.

A channel was opened.

"Trip, Malcolm..." Archer began.

"Let's hear it, Capt'n," Trip interrupted him, concern taking over. Immediately regretting his gruffness, he added more gently, "However bad it is, I think we'd rather you didn't beat around the bush." A glance at Malcolm confirmed that assumption, for the man was nodding quietly.

Phlox pulled his face into a taut smirk. "We are running out of time," he said without preamble. "This virus is even more aggressive than it seemed, and we can't wait very much longer." His face darkened. "I have figured out a way to kill it; but the cure could end up being rather... hard on the patient as well. Still, at the moment it's our best chance. I want to inject one of you with it, and if it works I can develop a less risky vaccine, so to speak, for the other one."

That sounded pretty desperate. No to mention dangerous. Trip opened his mouth to say so, but Malcolm anticipated him.

"How hard?"

Even before Phlox's reply the answer was written all over Archer's face.

"There is a fifty percent chance the treatment could be fatal," the Doctor said bluntly. "But if we wait, you will both be doomed. While we try the treatment on one of you and wait for the verdict, T'Pol and I will keep working on other possibilities. If the cure works, it will save both your lives; if it doesn't, one of you will still have a chance that we come up with some other option."

"You'll try it on me," Malcolm said without the blinking of a hesitation.

"Just hold on," Trip croaked out, finding his voice again. "You can't make this kind of decision, Lieutenant: I outrank you." He turned to Phlox. "You'll try it on me, Doc."

In Malcolm's pale face, shiny with perspiration, the grey eyes became mere slits. "I am more expendable than you are, Commander," he challenged doggedly. "And besides, I'm security."

"Security doesn't include actin' as a human guinea pig."

"It does if it means trying to keep other people safe."

"Capt'n..." Trip turned in frustration to the access hatch. Not that he was particularly eager to inject himself with a possibly fatal med, but Malcolm's impatience to play hero rubbed him the wrong way, for some reason. Absurdly enough, Malcolm had looked more worried when they were still uncertain of their fate than now that the Doctor had clearly spelled out their possible demise and made his virtually lethal proposition. Maybe Malcolm really got a kick out of risking his life. Trip realised that it was that thought which bothered him. Certainly the man seemed to enjoy donning the cloak of fearless warrior and jumping into action.

"God knows I wouldn't wish this on either of you," Archer said raucously. He turned to Phlox. "I'm afraid this is a decision best made by a Doctor."

Phlox pursed his lips for a brief moment. "Mister Reed," he then said quietly, "the shots you've been taking for some of your allergies actually make you the better choice. There is a chance they may act as an inhibitor of the treatment's bad effects without impairing its efficacy."

Malcolm's mouth tightened as he nodded a slow but almost satisfied assent. "Tell me what I have to do," he said.

"Very little."

Now that things had been decided, it was as if a film in slow motion had finally got up to speed. Trip watched Phlox show Malcolm a hypospray and place it in the pass-through. The Doctor's movements all of a sudden were fast and energetic, and he was talking in a tone that held quite a bit of urgency. Trip's mind, which had already been fuzzy, zoned out almost altogether, distracted by thoughts he could no longer keep at bay. He caught only words here and there – some of them, like 'high fever', 'nausea' and 'hallucinations', not very reassuring.

And then Malcolm was in his line of sight, stumbling forward. He opened the drawer, picked up the hypospray and looked at it for one long moment.

"Damn it, Malcolm…" It was all that Trip could think of saying. He watched his friend slowly turn around, raise the hypospray to his neck and, deep grey eyes locked on his, release either a cure or death into his bloodstream.

"Wish me – us – luck, Commander," he murmured.

"Lie down, Lieutenant," Phlox said with gentle concern. "I'll be monitoring you both from sickbay."

Archer's green eyes were almost pained. Trip read in them the desire to say something reassuring, and the dismay caused by the fact that nothing could be found. "I will be back a little later," the Captain finally said, grimacing probably at the futility of the words.

While Trip's tongue was stuck to his palate, Malcolm, ever his proper self, croaked out, "Thank you, Sir." Then he made his wobbly way back to his bench.

TBC

I know what you're thinking, that I always put Mal through so much... can I be that evil? Grins wickedly. Comments are always welcome! ;-)