As with most other problems he had faced in the past, Lucas found the answer to his grief in his work. Westphalen had arrived at his cabin door no more than five minutes after his conversation with Bridger, and already Lucas had been at his desk, engrossed in a computer program. He at first had shrugged off her requests to talk, but finally had given in and agreed to listen to her about how sorry she was and how he could lean on her during his mourning process. Lucas had listened quietly to her, nodding when appropriate, his face a mask of sadness as he worked through a complicated computer virus in his head. Finally Westphalen had understood that he wasn't ready to talk, and after a smothering hug, she'd left.

That was three days ago, and now Lucas was thoroughly miserable.

He leaned back in his chair and rubbed eyes that felt gritty and swollen. He was having a terrible time concentrating, his mind refusing to focus on any project. Even simple tasks – reading Crocker's report analyzing the security system upgrade he'd completed in the docking bay last month, for example – were proving daunting. With a jolt of self-loathing, Lucas wondered if his father's death was having a bigger effect on him than he would admit. But no, he refused to believe he cared that much. His father hadn't been interested in him when he was alive; Lucas was determined to return the favor now that he was dead.

Lucas shook his head and sat up straight, pounding his fists into his desk. After one more attempt at reading the security report, his frustration finally got the better of him and he stood up, hoping a break might help his concentration. He hadn't slept more than three hours at a time in the past three days, and he hoped he might finally have worked himself to such a point of exhaustion that rest would come easily for once.

He caught site of himself in a mirror on his locker door as he made his way to his bed. Lucas paused in front of the mirror, momentarily distracted by his reflection. He looked awful. His eyes were red and puffy. The bruise from three days ago, still tender to the touch, was likely at its peak black and blue stage. His cheeks were flushed pink, the rest of his face pale underneath. Lucas gaped at himself for a moment, then sighed and closed his eyes wearily. He was so tired.

He had barely collapsed into his bunk when he heard a sharp, impatient knock at his door.

"Who-" he started, surprised when his voice came out as a croak. He cleared his throat. "Who is it?"

Westphalen's head popped in, a suspicious smile on her face.

"Hope I'm not interrupting anything," she said, and stepped all the way into his room. "How are you doing today?"

"Fine." He knew Westphalen didn't buy his answer – his pale, tired features didn't escape her scrutiny – but she apparently didn't have time to press him right now.

"Good," she said. "I have something for you. Come on, get up."

"What's going on?" Lucas said, sitting up so he was leaning on his elbows.

"The flu," Westphalen said irritably. "Everyone needs to be immunized."

Lucas coughed and pushed himself into a proper sitting position.

"The flu?" he asked.

"Don't ask," she said with a shake of her head.

"Do you always make house calls for the flu?" he asked warily.

"Only for especially stubborn cases. Now roll up your sleeve."

Lucas obliged, tensing as Westphalen leaned in to give him the vaccine. But she stopped suddenly and stared hard at him. Before Lucas could react, she'd placed a hand across his forehead.

"Damn," she said softly.

"What?" Lucas asked, trying to swat her hands away as she moved down to feel the glands on either side of his neck.

"I'm too late, you're already sick," she said.

"I'm not sick."

Westphalen laughed mildly.

"What?" Lucas demanded, indignant.

"I'm sorry, Lucas, but you're definitely sick," she said, looking him up and down now. "I'm just surprised I didn't see it right away. How long have you been feeling ill?"

"I'm not-"

"Lucas."

He sighed. "I don't know. Since last night, I guess."

"Yes, that would make sense," Westphalen said, looking thoughtful. "Okay, I'm not going to take you with me, but I need you to promise that you're going to stay in bed, rest and drink lots of fluids. I'll send someone down with something for the fever."

"I don't really feel that bad, you know," he said.

"Perhaps," she said, narrowing her eyes at him. "But all the same, if you don't take care of yourself I can prepare a very nice bed for you in the med bay."

Lucas stared hard at her, debating how far he could challenge the doctor. But finally he decided he felt too sick to bother, and he sighed and leaned back in bed.

"Who gets the flu these days, anyway?" he grumbled as Westphalen fussed with his blankets.

"That's what I'd like to know," she said. "Now get some sleep. I'll check in on you in a few hours."

xxxXXXxxx

It had been some time since Bridger had seen the doctor this enraged. Wesphalen was pacing furiously across the length of his office, steam practically billowing out of her ears. Her face was a deep red and her voice was raised to a near yell.

Within 16 hours of the facility's explosion, a team of 30 seismological experts and hydropower researchers had arrived on the seaQuest to look into the World Power Project failure. As it turned out, one of them had arrived with a particularly nasty case of the flu, which he had promptly passed on to 23 seaQuest crewmembers before Westphalen could inoculate everyone.

"I can't believe it, in this day and age, the flu of all things!" Westphalen ranted. "Who gets the flu anymore? No one's seen a case of it in nearly 15 years. And what were they thinking, letting an ill man on my ship?"

"Your ship?" Bridger asked, watching her in mild amusement. She waved him off.

"Oh, don't get into semantics with me, Nathan. You know what I mean," she fumed. "We have standards about medical evaluations for a reason. I don't care how important it was to get these scientists on the seaQuest right away. There is simply no excuse for letting a sick man on this submarine."

"I agree, and we'll find out what went wrong," Bridger placated. "But in the meantime, what's the damage?"

"I have 16 scientists and seven enlisted men down. And it isn't pretty," said Westphalen, who had stopped pacing and was now facing Bridger. She began counting off symptoms on her fingers. "They've all got fevers, chills, nausea, headaches, congestion, coughs-"

Bridger held up his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay, I remember the flu, you know. Are they going to be all right?"

"Of course they'll be all right. They'll be just fine," Westphalen said. "If they follow my orders, that is. They'll need bed-rest for at least 48 hours, plenty of liquids, regular doses of acetaminophen to keep their fevers down-"

"And I'm sure they'll get all the medical attention they need from you and your staff," Bridger finished for her, wincing as Westphalen tossed an irritated glare at him for interrupting. "How about Lucas? Is he okay?"

Westphalen finally stopped for a moment, taking a deep breath before answering him.

"Yes, he'll be fine," she said. "But I'm worried about him, Nathan. He was exhausted even before he got sick. I'm sure he hasn't been sleeping well. He's working himself too hard. And-" She stopped.

"And what?"

"Well, I don't think he's talking to anybody, about his father, I mean," she finished. "He stays in his room almost all the time. Several people have come to me and said they've tried to get him to open up, but he won't say a thing."

Bridger sighed, shaking his head. "I know," he said. "I've tried myself. Several times. He refuses to talk at all. That kid is too stubborn for his own good."

They stood in thoughtful silence for a moment, Westphalen chewing on a nail. As if finally realizing what she was doing, she threw down her hand in disgust and groaned in frustration.

"And now this, this flu, on top of everything else," she said, her voice rising in anger. "Sometimes it seems like that poor boy has a 'kick me' sign taped to his back."

Bridger couldn't help but laugh a little at her comment.

"What?" she said sharply, apparently annoyed at his laughter.

"Lucas said the same thing to me this morning," Bridger said, shaking his head and smiling. "Well, except he didn't use 'poor boy' to describe himself."

"I don't know how to help him, Nathan," Westphalen said quietly.

"Me neither," Bridger agreed, stepping forward to give the doctor's shoulder a comforting squeeze. "I think we just wait. And we hope he comes to us when he's ready."

xxxXXXxxx

Lucas shut his eyes and tipped his head back, letting the near-scalding hot water run down his bare neck and chest, inhaling deeply as the rising steam enveloped his face. After three days of nearly non-stop sympathy from his shipmates, he was fed up with being treated like some fragile, emotional child. Still, sympathy had its advantages. There weren't many places to buy flowers or cards on a submarine, so Lucas instead had been flooded with other useful "gifts" – including lots of donated water rations, a very hot commodity on a ship where effective, but far-from-relaxing, ion showers were the norm. He knew Westphalen would probably tie him down in an infirmary bed if she found him here, but seeing as how he was in the men's shower room, the chances of discovery were in his favor. Besides, the hot water felt so good.

It was also clearing his mind. For days, Lucas had been doing everything within his power to keep his mind off his dad. Even in the best of circumstances Lucas liked to stay in control. His father's death had left him perilously vulnerable, his emotions too close to the surface. He wanted to feel nothing. He wanted to put his father's death – in fact, everything about his relationship with Dr. Wolenczak – behind him.

But as he soaked himself under the water, running his hair through the stream until rivulets were cascading down his face, Lucas found his thoughts drifting unbidden toward memories of his father. To be sure, there weren't many pleasant memories. His relationship with his father hadn't been like that of most boys. They'd never played catch or talked about girls. His father hadn't taught him how to drive a car or shave or knot a tie. He'd learned all about sex from older kids when he was an outcast child in college – Lucas could laugh now at what a traumatic discovery that had been.

Nonetheless, he and his father had had their moments. They'd shared a passion for science, even if his father had always been more interested in his political agendas than true discovery. They'd also shared a similar sense of humor, and on the rare occasions when his father had joined the family for dinner, he and Lucas had sometimes lapsed into fits of giggles that left them breathless and his mother feeling left out.

Lucas could remember attending an international conference with his father when he was just 6 years old. Yes, Dr. Wolenczak had mostly just wanted to show off his son, still newly discovered as a genius. But during a formal dinner on the final night of the conference, his father had seen Lucas fidgeting at the table, bored with the adult conversation and still at an age where he was picky about what he ate. He'd been pushing several pieces of expensive, and likely illegal, sushi around his plate for nearly an hour, and he'd molded his serving of sticky rice into a double-helix shape. Lucas had caught his father staring at him and at first had been overcome with fear that he'd done something wrong, something embarrassing. But his father had smiled, and five minutes later he'd excused himself and Lucas and treated his son to French fries and a milkshake at a nearby fast food restaurant. To this day it was the best milkshake Lucas had ever tasted.

In his shower, Lucas smiled at the memories. They did not make up for the fact that his father had all but abandoned him when he was just a child. That he'd been neglectful and occasionally downright cruel. But it felt good to know that there was some bit of good wrapped up in all the hate he directed at his father.

"Hey, how about saving some water for the rest of us?"

The angry, booming voice interrupted Lucas' thoughts and his eyes snapped open. He'd been so caught up in his memories that he'd forgotten where he was. Lucas quickly reached down to shut off the water and leaned over the stall to grab his towel.

"Oh, Lucas, sorry, I didn't know it was you," said Krieg, who had already stripped and was walking toward him with a towel wrapped tight around his waist. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"No, it's okay, I was done anyway," Lucas said. He shivered as he dried off, the chill already starting to return to his fevered body.

"You know, Westphalen's gonna kill you if she finds out you're in here," Krieg called from the next stall over, where he had just started up a shower of his own. Not for the first time, Lucas wondered where Krieg got his seemingly endless supply of water rations.

"Well let's hope no one tells her," Lucas called back, grateful that the steam seemed to have cleared up the croak in his voice for the time being. He stepped into boxer shorts and a pair of jeans, then worked the towel through his hair, hoping to dry it enough so he wouldn't draw Westphalen's suspicion if he ran into her on the way back to his room.

"So how are you feeling?" Krieg asked. Lucas rolled his eyes. He knew the question had little to do with the flu. Like nearly everyone else on board the seaQuest, Krieg had been constantly checking up on him and asking, not necessarily directly, about his father.

"Sick," Lucas said, and he could just imagine Krieg rolling his own eyes at the obvious answer.

"Sorry about that," Krieg said.

"It's not your fault," Lucas muttered to himself. He'd been muttering that a lot lately.

"What was that?" Krieg yelled.

"Nothing," Lucas said, and groaned inwardly at the croak that had returned to his voice. He pulled a turtleneck over his head just as the water was shut off in Krieg's stall. The lieutenant's wet head popped out of the shower.

"Lucas, you know if you ever want to talk, I'm-"

"Yeah, I know, you're there for me," Lucas said, wincing at the disappointment and worry he read on Krieg's face. "Thanks, really. I'm just not ready to talk about it yet."

"That's okay, you don't have to," Krieg said quickly. They were quiet as Krieg dried off and wrapped the towel around his waist again. When he stepped out of the shower, he put an affectionate arm around Lucas' shoulders and walked him toward the lockers. "You know, a group of us are playing cards tonight. Maybe if you feel up to it you'd want to join us."

"Yeah, maybe," Lucas said, knowing that Westphalen wouldn't just tie him to a bed if she found him playing cards – she'd probably knock him unconscious.

"We'll be in O'Neill's quarters at 2100 hours," Krieg said. "I'll even loan you 20 bucks, just to get you started."

Lucas' eyes widened in awe.

"Wow, 20 bucks? You must really feel bad for me," he said.

"Yeah, well," Krieg shrugged, and Lucas swore he could see him starting to blush.

"And O'Neill's playing?" Lucas asked.

"Yep," Krieg said, rubbing his hands in anticipation. "We're talking a sure thing, my friend."

Lucas sighed and headed toward the door.

"I don't believe in sure things," he said, and left with a brief wave goodbye.

By the time Lucas returned to his quarters, the symptoms that had been temporarily alleviated by the shower were returning in full force. He felt dizzy and lightheaded as he staggered through his door and collapsed onto his bed. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this exhausted. He was grateful that at least the antihistemine Westphalen had given him seemed to be keeping his sinuses clear and the coughing at bay. But it didn't help the chills or the fatigue, and his head was still throbbing. He was tempted to just crawl under the covers fully clothed, but he knew the only way to avoid the doctor's wrath was to look as though he was taking proper care of himself, and that meant not sleeping in jeans and a turtleneck. Lucas sighed and stood up, looking around his cluttered room for the sweatpants and T-shirt he sometimes slept in. Instead, as was often the case, he was distracted by his computer.

Lucas saw that he had received a new message while he was in the shower. The sender wasn't familiar to him, but it was undoubtedly another sympathy note. Still, Lucas could rarely resist opening any mail, no matter the content. He sat heavily in the chair in front of his computer and opened the message. And his heart promptly jumped into his throat.

"Lucas, it's your father. I'm all right."

Those first words seemed to spring right off his computer and slap him in the face. For a moment Lucas couldn't read any further. His mind was reeling and he was staring so hard at the words that they seemed to blur and waver in front of him. He shook his head and forced himself to read the whole thing.

Lucas,

It's your father. I'm all right.

I'm sorry I don't have more time to write now, but I had to tell you that I'm still alive and I love you.

However, it is crucial, for your sake and mine, that you tell no one that I am alive. You have to trust me, son. It is a matter of life and death. I can't tell you where I am and we cannot speak in person. But please write back to me when you get this message.

I'm sorry for all the pain I must have caused you with reports of my death. It was the only way.

Be careful.

Dad