Title: Coming Clean

Author: Meridian

Rating: PG-13 (some language, severe sickness, sexual imagery)

Stage 2: Fever

Abby had taken second watch. Dex and Hedges, Hedges in particular, claimed to be too squeamish to do the clean up work in the bathroom, so Abby had taken over, leaving them with the first night's shift watching their new guest. The tub was disgusting enough to merit an entire night off, but her curiosity would not be satisfied if she didn't see the whole treatment through. Sommerfield said the fever would build but would not peak for a few hours.

In the interim, Abby collected a few samples for Sommerfield's burgeoning DNA collection. If any of the vampire blood survived the stomach acids, Sommerfield would use it to continue working on Daystar. They had yet to match King's master, or mistress, as the case was, to their database, which meant she was probably not that old. Older, for Daystar's purposes, would have been better, but they'd be lucky to get a viable sample at all from the mess in the bathtub.

One heavy Clorox treatment of the bath and a long, scalding hot shower later, Abby emerged feeling, for the first time in hours, scrubbed clean and germ free. She caught a few hours sleep, and then relieved Hedges.

"How is he?"

"Sleeping. God," Hedges ran a hand over his face. "He even talks in his sleep." Smiling, Abby patted Hedges on the shoulder and took up his seat next to King's bed. She'd brought a few arrow tips with her. After taking them to the practice range, she sharpened them again-waste not, want not.

No.

Abby's head jerked up at the same time King tossed his. Had she imagined that? Hedges had said he talked in his sleep. That made sense. She watched him, watched his lower lip tremble and his jaw muscles tense and release, tense and release.

"No," he whimpered, uncharacteristically-as far she understood his character, that was-timid, scared, vulnerable. She placed her wrist to his forehead; the fever burnt high, and her wrist came away slick with his sweat. All the while, his jaw worked, tight, loose, tight, loose, almost as if he were chewing on something.

Not good. If he gnawed on the inside of his mouth, or, worse, bit off his tongue, things could get rather serious rather fast. Abby reached for a pair of disposable latex gloves from the box beside the bed, plucking up a couple of wooden tongue depressors as well. Forcing his jaw open when it next relaxed, she roughly inserted the wooden sticks between his teeth on either side. The sharp canines in front bit down and through even the thick wood, but the molars at the back were kept apart.

Satisfied, Abby leaned back and waited to see if he would wake. With the ends of the depressors keeping his lips from closing over his mouth, she could see the unnaturally elongated teeth in front worrying at the wood and each other. Sommerfield hadn't mentioned when those would recede. Perhaps they wouldn't; they might need to be worn down, like gerbils' teeth, on a rock, or broken off. He wasn't fully vamped, though, or he wouldn't have survived the EDTA. So, maybe they would just go back to normal, the same way the rest of his body would.

"Mrn," King grumbled, whatever he might have said garbled around the tongue depressors. The words sounded like what one might have expected from a person who'd gotten their wisdom teeth removed-like his mouth was full of cotton. He twitched, too, various muscles spasming, in his arm and his shoulder, from his chest to his abdomen. She placed one cool hand over a particularly excited muscle on his shoulder. "Mrn, rauch isfh," he said, eyebrows furrowing.

"Shh," she cooed for no reason she could fathom. After a moment, he opened his eyes, blinking, dazedly, at her in the dark. He seemed confused, unable to focus on her. Gently, she reached out and removed the tongue depressors. "I didn't want you to bite yourself.

"My mouth hurts," he whispered, trying to rub his cheek against his shoulder. Strapped down, he couldn't massage the obviously sore muscles.

"Stay still, and I'll help you." Obediently, he lay still, and Abby placed two fingers just below his temple and began to press in on the muscles there, lightly at first, then harder, moving her fingers in circles. "Better?"

"A pretty girl is touching me. What do you think?" King smiled, a proper use of his overworked jaw, and despite herself Abby smiled back.

"Get through the night, Romeo."

"Tell me about the other guy who went through this," King said, eyes falling shut. "Your dad."

"I wasn't there for it," Abby confessed, switching hands and working at the knots on the other side of King's face. "Someone else rescued him. He told me about it, though."

"What did he say?"

"That it hurt like hell." Actually, what her father had said was, 'It burns, Abby. It burns like the worst cramp you've ever had mixed with the worst cut you ever had. It's sore and it's raw and it hurts to be touched. That's when it's the absolute worst-the fever makes you ache and everything that touches you is too hot and too cold all at once. On fire, from the inside.' She tried to picture him going through this. He talked honestly about it, but he never let her see how much it had wounded him, never betrayed himself or his feelings in his words.

"Hell," King sighed, "is about right."

"This happened last time, didn't it?" She prompted him, trying to keep him talking. It was cruel, perhaps, but anything they could learn about this condition would help them fight it and treat it in the future.

"I don't remember," King said, truthfully. He possessed no surplus strength to lie, and Abby found herself admiring that; he fought hard, spared nothing for artifice. Whenever it was he recovered completely, she could see that his pride and determination would deny ever being weak like this. When he didn't have to devote all his resources towards saving his life, that was.

"How many times did they hit you with the cure?"

"Two, maybe three. Never went long, though."

"How long this time?"

"Maybe a year?"

Abby bit her lip. She didn't know anyone could go a full year, still active, and not change entirely.

"My father was out of commission for almost four years."

"No shit."

"They kept him in stasis. They were using him as insurance."

"Against you?"

"No," she said without elaborating. She hadn't mentioned her father again to bring up the subject of his line of work-or his coworker, for that matter. She had intended to encourage King. "He wasn't active, like you. I'm impressed you didn't change. After a year?"

"Thanks," King wheezed, eyes fluttering open. "I always knew I could do it."

"Why did your...why did the vampire holding you wait so long?"

"She enjoyed having dinner with me."

"Ugh," Abby wrinkled her nose in disgust. Just like a vamp, too. They were all sadists at heart. Something about immortality bestowed a marked indifference to the suffering of others, or, worse, engendered a love for the sufferings of others. Still, what would that be like? That life? "How was it?"

"The pea soup was terrible."

"You're funny," she rolled her eyes. "Seriously."

"I'm always serious."

"You don't want to tell me? Sommer's gonna ask, you know."

King sighed again, his breath hitching as though breathing were difficult. "It's like being a starving vegetarian in Texas."

Abby's jaw dropped open slightly. "Come again?"

"You're dying for food, and the first thing someone puts in front of you is a steak that's still mooing. You don't care that you don't like it, you need it." He ran his tongue over his bruised lips and shuddered.

"Vampires must have not taste buds," Abby grimaced.

"They have them. They just selectively breed for the ones that can pick blood vintages like merlots."

"Wonderful," Abby made another show of distaste, dropping the subject. They sat together in silence, not asking inane questions to pass the uncomfortable minutes in each other's company, with her absently running the whetting stone over her arrowheads and him alternating between pained, shallow breaths and deep, shaky ones. She thought he'd gone back to sleep when he spoke again.

"What happens if I don't beat this?"

"I kill you." Aware of how callous this sounded, she mitigated, saying, apologetically, "That's the way it has to be."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah," he turned his head away from her. "Better than the alternative."

Something in the way he said it made her believe, for the first time, that he was not a threat. She hesitated, unsure, then made up her mind. Setting aside her weapons, Abby worked at the restraints, moving to his feet first, then unbuckling the ones at his wrists. He remained still while she unfastened the leather, until all were loose. Then, suddenly, he curled up on the gurney, bringing both his arms to his chest and his knees up over them.

To her astonishment, he began to sob. It was so out of place for this man as far as she knew him, and so drastic a change from the way he had been not five minutes before, when he had been restrained. She lowered one guardrail and dragged her stool closer so she could sit leaning around him, holding him.

"You have to win, King. Failure is not an option. If you lose, you die."

"I," he ground his teeth and spat the words through them, "Never. Lose."