The next time Miguel woke it was to find that someone had laid a blanket over him while he slept. It troubled him more than a little that he hadn't stirred, and it troubled him even more that he was perturbed at all. Normally that sort of thing wouldn't have worried him in the slightest, and in fact he would have been grateful to whoever had done such a thing. It was a thoughtful gesture, after all, more than anything even remotely insidious, but he couldn't shake that feeling of unsettlement, like an itch under his skin that he just couldn't shake. Normally he would have found out, by one means or another, who had done the simple thoughtful thing and thanked them for it. Normally.

But what was normal now?

Miguel swallowed as best he could against the sandy dryness in his mouth and throat, grimacing as he did so.

Had his experiences really affected him so much? Had they changed him so much?

He wanted the answer to be no, and a resounding one at that, but he could only try to fool himself for so long before the effort itself just felt sickening.

All of this, it had changed him, perhaps irrevocably, and pretending otherwise was not only pointless but possibly even dangerous. Working the way they did, offshore and underwater for weeks at a time, sometimes longer, wasn't easy by any stretch of the imagination. If a person wasn't careful they could lose track of not only time, but themselves. Little things started to slip, and it was like dominoes after that. Little things led to big things. A lot of the time the warning signs were subtle, quiet and small enough that others didn't notice if they weren't looking for them, and with a crew like that aboard the seaQuest no one would ever expect such a thing was even possible. They were the best of the best, handpicked, carefully selected after meticulous study of personal and professional records. Not just anyone got assigned to the UEO's flagship, its pride and joy, the most sophisticated and advanced vessel in its already impressive fleet.

And it wouldn't take much for that assignment to be revoked, under the right circumstances. Or the wrong ones, more to the point.

Miguel couldn't really think of anything worse.

Trying to move, to sit up, brought with it a rush of pain that made him feel almost unbearably dizzy. A fierce wave of it was concentrated to the left side of his face, the lower half at least, and it was deep and biting enough that it actually made his eyes sting with tears. There were other hurts too, a hot discomfort down his arm and an uncomfortable familiar burn of an ache through his ribs, but they were easier to ignore than his jaw.

Because he knew it was his jaw. He remembered. At first he hadn't, his brain struggling to put everything back in the right order, but after a while everything clicked and slotted together again and he remembered. The blow that had almost knocked him senseless, the pain of it, whatever had been in that cup that she had had him drink from, something that had quieted and dulled that pain long enough for him to get some semblance of rest.

A discomforted feeling, like the raising of the hairs at the back of his neck, had him lifting his gaze and angling it across the room. Not towards O'Neill, who seemed to be sleeping if the lack of movement was any indication, and not at Brody who was settled in a bed off towards the rear of the room. Past that, beyond it and even further back into the room. That feeling, that icy crawl just beneath the surface of his skin, worsened when his gaze landed on that bed, and the figure within it.

Irina.

The sight of her, even unconscious as she seemed to be, was enough to have his heart instantly picking up in speed, a suddenly rapid drumming in his chest, and his breathing caught and hitched. It hurt. He made a sound without even realising it, laboured and frightened. Anger that quickly became heavy with disgust flooded through him and clouded his vision even as he tried to disentangle his legs from the blanket that unknown someone had laid over him. The urge, the need, to get away was too strong for him to ignore and even though the movement, every twist and shift of his body, reignited already demanding and relentless pains through his ribs and arm and skull, he had to go.

"Miguel?" The sound came from that same direction, the one which he was now avoiding with his eyes by any means necessary, as if merely gazing towards the blonde woman again would rouse her and draw her attention. It was getting harder to breathe. "Miguel—whoa." He had managed to free his legs from the blanket, mostly, but one foot had gotten tangled and he almost spilled out of the bed altogether.

The hands that caught him were careful, but carried a quiet kind of urgency that some part of his brain almost instantly recognised as belonging to Doctor Smith, even before his vision cleared just enough for him to see her standing close to him. Close enough to catch him, at least.

"What are you doing?" And her brow creased. "What's wrong?"

Miguel flinched despite himself. She had read his mind. It was probably only surface thoughts, unintentional on her part, involuntary due to the strength of whatever was fuelling his desperate motions in that moment, but it was still too much. And it scared him. "I—" But his breath caught again and he couldn't get it back. His chest felt tight, tighter still, so tight that it was as if someone had closed a vice around it and was winding its powerful jaws closer and closer together.

His vision was tunnelling. Growing dark at the edges. Creeping in.


A raised voice had him stirring, groggy at first until he heard concern in that voice as it sounded again. That had him lifting his hands to rub at his eyes before he reached out blindly, a little clumsily, for his glasses. As soon as they were on he could see what it was that had woken him and before he could even think about whether or not it was a good idea he was practically scrambling out of bed and moving across the floor. He didn't even pause to shove his feet into the simple slippers on the floor. What he did have to pause for was the IV pole, which he felt snag and wobble dangerously when he pulled the line tight by accident. He had forgotten all about it. With a hasty grumble under his breath he stumbled, reached back, snatched hold of the stupid thing and shoved it along with him. It was that or rip the thing out of his arm and he didn't think he had the stomach for that.

As quickly as possible he crossed the room, not even noticing the chill of the floor against his bare feet. Even before he got close enough to bow his head a little to get a better look at Miguel's face he knew what he was seeing, what was happening to the other man. Just because it was something he never would have expected to see in his best friend that didn't change what was happening.

"He's having a panic attack." It was stated as fact, straightforward and firm, rather than posed as a suggestion. He looked briefly to Doctor Smith when she turned her head to meet his gaze, and he could see in her eyes the briefest moment in which she had thought about asking if he was sure. She must have seen it in his face that he was. He didn't ask for permission for what he did next, just moved in even closer and brought both hands up to take hold of Miguel's face on either side, catching himself at the last moment and setting his hands further back, clear of his friend's jaw. It still had the desired effect of holding Miguel's head at an angle where he could see who was standing directly in front of him. "Miguel? Hey, Miguel, it's me. It's Tim." The other man's dark eyes were wide but almost unseeing, filled with that panic that was threatening to seize full control of his body and every single one of its functions. "It's me. Listen to my voice. Okay? Just listen to my voice." He held his friend's gaze even if Miguel didn't seem to really be seeing him and pressed on, "I know you're scared, and you have no idea what's happening. But just focus on my voice." The sound of Miguel fighting and failing to get air down into his lungs was awful, close to one of the worst sounds Tim thought he had ever heard, and for a moment it was a struggle to keep his own emotions in check. "You need to breathe, Miguel. Breathe."

He moved his hands then, setting one at the back of Miguel's head instead of the side, the other reaching down for the other man's hand. He caught it easily enough and brought it up, before planting it on his own chest. Right over his heart. "Breathe with me, Miguel. In and out. You know this, right? In and out, nice and slow." And then he started to do just that for himself, taking in a deep breath that raised his chest beneath his friend's hand, letting it fill his lungs completely, before allowing it to slide back out, his chest sinking once again beneath the other man's palm. "In and out," he said quietly, encouragingly, seeing the subtlest shift in Miguel's dark eyes and giving him a small nod of reassurance. "That's it. In and out, slow and steady."

They stayed like that for a while, Tim wasn't sure how long, with Doctor Smith standing close by but not interfering in any way, her gaze moving frequently between the two of them. Little by little Miguel's eyes cleared enough for Tim to be sure he was actually seeing things again, and after a while he felt the other man's hand shift against his chest, fingers curling in a little, just for a moment, before he splayed them properly and really seemed to focus on the movement and the beat of the heart beneath.

"That's it," he said again, recognising probably better than most that the storm was passing, and the skies were clearing. There were still clouds, he could see that in Miguel's eyes, but for the moment at least the danger seemed to have passed. "There you go. Just like that." He released Miguel's wrist then and laid his own hand on his friend's chest in return, nodding his head once again as he felt the rhythm of the heartbeat beneath his palm. "You're okay."

But even as the words left his mouth he knew that they were a lie. They weren't even particularly comforting, not for him and certainly not for Miguel, whose eyes held a shine that was threatening to ruin what composure Tim was managing to hold together for his friend's benefit.

Miguel was not okay. Far, far from it.


It felt like he was falling apart. One piece at a time, in scraps and pieces and fragments, it felt like he was fracturing and crumbling.

It was terrifying. More than terrifying. It was the worst sort of fear he had ever felt in his life and even once he had his breath back the magnitude of that fear seemed so great that it might just crush him. It felt dangerously close.

Miguel didn't know what to do.

He couldn't remember if he had settled himself back on the edge of the bed or if he had been guided there but part of him was aware that it didn't matter. He just was. Doctor Smith was checking things, the front of his uniform jumpsuit had already been unzipped and someone had obviously eased his arms from the sleeves. He hadn't really noticed it until then, and he couldn't help but wonder, distantly, just when it had been done.

Tim was still standing close by. When Miguel's vision had cleared enough during that breathless, crippling eternity of sheer and numbing panic to see that it was Tim, part of him had wanted to shy away, put distance between himself and the man he had hurt so terribly. His closest friend. But another part of him had seized control and kept him rooted to the spot, refusing to allow him to move. That part had obviously known that Tim was trying to help, that he could help. And so he had. Now, even with that awful moment passed and with that same first part of him still wanting to draw away and put distance between them, he didn't think he had it in him to do it. Physical strength or force of will, he didn't know which and just like how he had come to sit on the bed it didn't really matter.

"I'll get you some painkillers," Doctor Smith said, draping her stethoscope back around her neck, settling it gently on either side of her chest. "We need to talk about—"

"I—" He had cut her off prematurely, before he had his own words aligned in his head. Miguel closed his eyes, frustrated, and shook his head. Trying to talk, shaking his head like that, it hurt his jaw. Badly. He couldn't keep from eliciting a small groan of discomfort.

"Try not to talk," she said gently, her touch landing lightly on his shoulder. "There's nothing I can do but give you those painkillers. It's best not to talk too much."

But he had to say it. He had to say it now. "I can't—" It was a sharp ache, hot and carrying with fierce intensity through his whole skull. He hadn't known that it was possible for all of his teeth to hurt, not before that moment. "Here." Frustration again.

"Miguel." She sighed softly. "If you let me, I can—"

"No." It bolted out of him, that word, so fast and so forceful that it startled him as much as it did them, both of them, caught off guard by the power of it. The pain through his jaw was so bad now that it was almost difficult to think. He had to say what he needed to say. "I can't—" he forced himself to say it slowly, and carefully, "—be here."

"What do you mean?" She was standing close enough that he could see her, even with the slight wavering of his focus. "Here on the ship?"

Miguel almost shook his head again but stopped himself. "Here."

"Med bay," Tim offered and Miguel felt a wave of almost overwhelming relief that the other man was there in that moment. Of course Tim would figure out what he meant. And sure enough, after a few moments, the man shifted his gaze across the room and then brought it back, understanding dawning along with realisation. "She's here."

He hadn't meant to squeeze his eyes shut at that word, she's, but it just happened. He couldn't stop it. It was like the word itself was a physical blow, one he had to brace himself for.

"Oh, Miguel." It wasn't pity in Doctor Smith's voice, but something that he thought might have been regret. He heard her sigh, a short, swift sound. Was she frustrated? Without turning his head to look at her he couldn't be sure and his jaw hurt too much for him to even dare to try. "We're not done here, but—" She looked at him again, their eyes meeting. "Let me speak to Captain Bridger. We'll work something out."

Without realising he had been gripping the edge of the bed, so tightly that his hands started to ache, and when he glanced down at one of them he saw that the knuckles had turned white. When he brought his eyes up again he saw Tim looking as well. There was no need for him to feel ashamed but he couldn't stop that either, just like the panic and the fear and everything else that was running wild inside of him and threatening to trample him in the process.

Miguel didn't know what to do. And he didn't know how long he would be able to stand it.


"What about the implant?" Nathan frowned as he set his work aside, focusing all of his attention on the vid-link screen. He hadn't been surprised to hear from Wendy, but what she was telling him had certainly caught him off guard. "You haven't removed it yet." He didn't need to phrase that as a question. She wouldn't have gone ahead without informing him first.

"No, I haven't." She hadn't needed to reassure him either, but she did it anyway. It was her turn to frown, and deeply. "But Nathan, you didn't see it. He cannot stay here, not if she's here as well. I've never seen anyone on this crew like that, least of all Ortiz."

That was troubling, to say the least. He set his chin in his palm, his fingers curled near his mouth. His mind was running but not on any one subject, his thoughts already streaming off along several paths at once. Quieting those thoughts he gave Wendy his full attention again. "So what do you suggest, Doctor?" He lowered his hand, knitting it with the other on the table top. "He obviously still needs treatment, and the Dvornikov woman needs to be kept under observation."

"Most of what I can do for Ortiz can be done anywhere on seaQuest," she told him. Clearly she had already given this some thought. "But I wouldn't feel comfortable sending him back to his quarters. It wouldn't be fair to Ortiz, or Tyson for that matter." She heaved a sigh. "Honestly I'm not thrilled about the idea of him not being under medical supervision for the foreseeable future, but—" If there was a natural end to that sentence she didn't see fit to share it with him. "The best I can think of is that we move him temporarily to guest quarters." Wendy opened her mouth as if to say something else, and then closed it.

Nathan studied her face for a moment. Just a moment. It was all he needed. "Under guard," he added on her behalf.

Another sigh. "I don't like it," she said, "but—"

"Better safe than sorry?"

Wendy's smile was weary, and a little sad. She gave him a small nod.

It didn't really need a lot of thought on his part, or consideration. If Wendy thought this was the best idea then he would go along with it. But he wanted to be sure that they had considered all alternatives first. "Can't we move the Dvornikov woman to the brig? We could set up all the necessary equipment there."

"I thought about that myself," she said, "but there's a risk to moving her. We need to keep her condition perfectly maintained or there's the chance she might start to regain consciousness. And with her power?" Her brows lifted, her head shaking back and forth a little.

"I see your point," Nathan conceded, holding up a hand. He didn't even want to imagine what kinds of havoc that woman could unleash on his boat, a second time at that, if she managed to get loose. Things had been bad enough when she hadn't been physically present. "And what about the implant? When can you remove it?"

She shifted a little in her seat. "As soon as we believe it can be done safely." She was quiet for only a moment, before saying, "As soon as Doctor Clarke is happy that the procedure doesn't pose a serious risk to Ortiz, he'll let me know."

Nathan didn't like the idea of that thing still being in one of his people, especially not one who had already been through so much recently. "And Lucas is sure that it's completely deactivated?"

Wendy nodded. "He's regularly checking for a signal, just to be sure." Obviously the Doctor and their Chief Computer Analyst had been working closely on the matter. Nathan found that reassuring.

He gave her a nod. "All right. Go ahead and do what you think is best. I'll speak to Jonathan about assigning temporary quarters, and a guard to post at the door."

"Captain?" Once their eyes met again she went on, "The guard? Make sure it's someone Ortiz knows well." The shadow of a smile she gave him was almost apologetic, as if adding anything else at this point was some sort of nuisance. In Nathan's opinion nothing could be further from the truth. "Someone he trusts," she said, and that shadow of a smile slipped away completely, leaving her once again looking weary and worried.

Another nod, this time a single bob of his head. "I will, Doctor." It was a good call, and definitely one he would go along with. If he was completely honest with himself he was thoroughly out of his depth on this one, this whole situation, and the sooner they got it all wrapped up and dealt with the better he would feel. He suspected he wasn't the only one, either.

Wendy gave him a small bob of her own and disconnected the link. Nathan watched the screen iris out, winking away to reveal the UEO's emblem on a field of black. With a heavy sigh he sat back in his chair, resting his head on his hand, feeling more than a little weary and worried himself.