Twelve hours after Phlox injected him, Malcolm had a seizure.
Phlox had kept a close watch during the night, but Malcolm had suffered nothing more extensive than shivering, fever and spells of nausea. Some of the night he was asleep, but mostly he seemed to just be riding it out, waiting for it to be over. Sleepless himself, Jonathan had checked in repeatedly until Phlox had finally declared that the captain's behavior was agitating his patient.
Jonathan supposed that was probably true, given that everything depended on Malcolm coming out of this with his life and without his parasites. It was a lot of pressure to be under, especially for someone with a fever. So Jonathan had finally forced himself to stay occupied in his own quarters, pacing around, looking at his monitor without really thinking about what he was looking at, rereading the captain's logs he barely remembered creating, feeding bits of cheese to Porthos…
But eventually he was back in the Brig. He couldn't help it.
Malcolm was at least sitting up now, but he looked awful.
"Well you're going to have to take in nutrients somehow," Phlox was insisting.
It wasn't hard to see what the first part of this conversation had been. Malcolm had enough trouble with his stomach on a good day. Under the present circumstances, he probably didn't feel like eating anything. And chances were, he was right. Food didn't do much good if it didn't stay down. Phlox knew that better than anyone, being a doctor. But he tended to take the issue of nausea rather lightly, even given Malcolm's history with the problem.
Malcolm didn't answer Phlox, which Jonathan at first assumed was simply a disinclination to argue with the doctor. However, Phlox picked up on it almost immediately.
"Lieutenant?" he inquired, a sharpness entering his tone that indicated concern, "Lt. Reed, can you hear me?"
Jonathan tensed when he realized Malcolm had become unresponsive, despite having been engaged in conversation mere moments before Jonathan walked in. Phlox pulled out his medical scanner, and ran a scan of Malcolm, who didn't seem to notice.
"What's happening to him?" Jonathan asked with some alarm.
Phlox didn't even look up, having apparently already noticed Jonathan's arrival, "A mild seizure. It should pass in a few moments."
Jonathan noticed that, in addition to Malcolm's sudden inattention to his surroundings, the lieutenant's right hand was trembling slightly even though the shivering from the night before appeared to have ceased. A handful of seconds later, Malcolm sort of jumped, as if in surprise. Probably he was surprised, since Phlox wasn't standing where he'd been before the seizure started and Malcolm seemed not to have tracked his movements since then. Maybe fifteen seconds had gone by, but Malcolm probably didn't know that.
"What happened?" Malcolm asked uneasily.
"You experienced a mild seizure. You were unresponsive for several seconds," Phlox replied, running his scanner again, "Nothing to worry about."
"Oh," Malcolm replied, sounding a little bit unconvinced about that last part.
"It was probably caused by a combination of factors, including the fever and hyponatremia," Phlox explained, "I'll need to give you a hypo to reduce both conditions."
"Will that affect the cure?" Malcolm asked quickly, though he'd acquired another briefly blank stare when Phlox said 'hyponatremia,' meaning he probably had no idea what that meant. Jonathan certainly didn't.
"Possibly," Phlox replied, "But it won't be much of a cure if you're dead by the end of it."
"I understand that, Doctor," Malcolm said quietly, taking his time forming sentences, which appeared to be rather difficult, "But it's only working minimally. You said it yourself, the parasites are being affected but are still active. And I have far fewer than anyone else on board, according to you. If being able to eliminate my parasites brings you closer to a better cure, then I should think it's well worth it."
"Are you refusing treatment?" Phlox asked with failing patience.
"I'm asking if mitigating the side effects will also reduce the efficacy of the drug," Malcolm clarified.
"I don't know," Phlox said reluctantly, "What I do know is that I much prefer my patients alive."
"And I much prefer being alive," Malcolm assured him, "But not if the cost is the rest of Enterprise's crew. I know you understand that."
Phlox sighed, "I do. And I am just as eager to save the crew as you are, believe me," he paused, "Now. Can you trust that I know what I'm doing, and let me worry about making sure the cure is successful? Or are you now refusing treatment?"
"I trust you, Doctor," Malcolm replied, "I just… I don't like feeling helpless and in the dark. I don't know what's an acceptable risk here and what isn't."
"Anxiety is normal in your present condition," Phlox said, as if anxiety wasn't actually just typical for Malcolm at any time, "I'll be back shortly. I suggest you remain sitting as you are, just in case you experience another seizure. If you fall down and break your neck, we'll never know if this drug works."
"Understood," Malcolm sighed.
Not that there was anywhere for Malcolm to go anyway.
As Phlox passed Jonathan on his way out of the Brig, he said quietly, "Keep an eye on him. Call me immediately if his condition worsens or he has another seizure."
Clearly, Phlox was not as unconcerned as he was pretending to be.
Deciding he wasn't going to know if Malcolm became unresponsive unless Jonathan gave him something to respond to, Jonathan said, "Things aren't going so well out here, Malcolm. Honestly, I don't know how you survived a month of this. It's about to drive me crazy."
"I've survived worse situations," Malcolm replied somewhat darkly, then added rather slowly, "Anyway, it wasn't so bad all along. It took time. At first it didn't strike me as any stranger than… fancying sports. Certainly it was less intimidating conversationally. Nobody expected me to know more than I did about it, which was effectively nothing, because that's what everyone else knew too."
Jonathan had his doubts about all of that. Having put up with several spice related conversations, Jonathan had concluded that they were deeply disturbing. Every time the spice came up, he was reminded that he was surrounded by people who looked and sounded like his crew, but were not. Equally, he was convinced that they would turn on him if he even suggested that he might get in their way. Whoever these people were, they didn't answer to him, and they were not his crew.
It must have been much worse for Malcolm, because Malcolm had been in it alone, with no idea how to fix it, watching it get progressively worse, not knowing when or how it might end or even what it was. Each day had been nothing but lonely uncertainty and the constant fear for his life and the lives of those around him, people whom Jonathan knew Malcolm was willing to die to protect, but who were now succumbing to an illness he didn't understand and couldn't fight. It must've been absolute hell.
But of course Malcolm would downplay it.
The Romulan minefield had shown Jonathan just what Malcolm was made of. He'd never forget that nonchalant report that the defective mine stuck to the ship had deployed another spike, followed by the equally calm admission that the spike had gone straight through Malcolm's leg on its way to the hull. It wasn't a high pain tolerance or even the training of the professional. It was simply Malcolm's way, to discount his own needs in the midst of a crisis. He complained with the best of them easily and casually on a practically daily basis, but when push came to shove, Malcolm set himself aside and committed to doing whatever it took to do his job, and protect Enterprise and her crew, and if there was pain then so be it, he would endure whatever amount of it he had to.
Even though things were quiet now, they were in the middle of a crisis. Lives were in danger. People would live or die based on what happened in the next few hours or days. Malcolm would not admit the pain he was in now, or the suffering he'd experienced up to this point. Perhaps later, when he recounted these events for one reason or another. But not now.
Malcolm leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.
"Malcolm, you still there?" Jonathan asked, for want of anything else to say.
"Yes sir," Malcolm replied, "It's just the light's a little bright."
"We'll fix that after Phlox gets back," Jonathan promised.
Malcolm nodded, but didn't say anything in response.
Jonathan felt like he should say something more, but the words wouldn't come to him. He'd actually avoided spending much time with Malcolm in the Brig, and he had several perfectly good excuses why. But, ultimately, it was because seeing what he had allowed to befall Malcolm made him feel weak, and small and guilty, and he didn't particularly like any of those feelings.
The fact that Malcolm was treating him with the same respect and deference that had always been his due somehow made it all the worse, particularly since they both knew that Jonathan had not been the captain of the Enterprise lately, but the puppet of some infinitesimally tiny parasites that, according to Phlox, had no more intelligence than a dog flea or mange. Nobody wanted to face the idea that they'd been defeated by space fleas. The idea of mind altering fungi would've been more comfortable, though there wasn't any real reason why that should be the case.
"I'm sorry," Malcolm said, disrupting Jonathan's thoughts, "About my attitude when you first came to the Brig. It was not only unhelpful, but disrespectful as well."
How did those words come so easily to Malcolm? Those first two words were the ones Jonathan most wanted to say out loud, but for some reason he just couldn't.
"You know, I'd almost forgotten that entirely?" Jonathan said with some surprise, "But you were right. You needed a captain, and you got..." he trailed off, half hoping Malcolm would take it as a cue to finish the sentence, but Malcolm offered nothing.
Instead, Malcolm was silent, eyes down but watchful.
"You're not the one who needs to apologize," Jonathan said.
Malcolm looked up in surprise, meeting Jonathan's eyes for what felt like the first time in a long time.
"I don't..." his eyes narrowed warily, "I don't think I quite follow, sir."
Jonathan sighed again. He started to say something, but then found himself annoyed to be standing so far away, outside the cell. Impatiently, he stepped inside, which only increased the wariness in Malcolm's eyes, a look that served to make Jonathan aware of how aggressively he'd moved.
But, since he was already standing in the cell, it seemed the only way through was either forward or by admitting defeat and leaving the Brig altogether… which was a luxury he couldn't afford. Not and still call himself the captain of this ship. A real captain wasn't too cowardly to face it when he'd screwed up this royally. Wasn't too weighted by his own ego to see that he had to admit he'd done something wrong in order to start making things right.
"This would be so much easier with Trip," Jonathan mused aloud, "We've been friends a long time… and he usually knows what I'm thinking. Sometimes better than I do. He understands what I mean, even when I can't find a way to actually… say it."
Malcolm merely stared at him, tense, waiting for something to break, not sure what he was expected to do or say, and so doing and saying nothing in the hopes that whatever this was would blow over without hitting him. Looking at him, Jonathan realized that was exactly it. Malcolm looked like he expected someone to hit him nearly all the time, though never more than when he'd failed in a task, whether it was through his own fault or not, and whether or not the task had really been fairly given.
"Phlox is the one who tested the spice," Jonathan said, beginning to pace around, then thinking better of it and turning to face Malcolm again, "Trip is the one who negotiated the trade for it. T'Pol was the one who recommended we trade with the Vixlettes to begin with, so we wouldn't risk offending them," he paused taking a deep breath and then letting it out slowly, "But I'm the one who let them on board."
"You couldn't have known-" Malcolm began, but Jonathan interrupted him sharply.
"I should have been more careful. I should have made Phlox run more tests, and sent the Vixlettes through decon. I should have told them to keep their tentacles to themselves. But I didn't," Jonathan started to pace again, unable to stop himself, "I wanted to make friends out here so damn badly I could taste it, and they're one of the few people who haven't started off with weapons drawn the second they met us. There's so much suspicion and hostility out here, it made a refreshing change of pace… and that should have immediately been a warning sign," he turned abruptly towards Malcolm, "You saw it. You recommended we take more time, do more scans of their ship, get to know them better, have more security on them while they were here..."
Malcolm shook his head, "Sir, none of that would have made a bit of difference. Their ship had no real weapons, nor did they have any intention of engaging in hostilities."
"That's beside the point," Jonathan insisted, "The point is that you wanted to be careful… and I didn't listen. And… I'm sorry. For that… and for everything that's come of it."
"It's not a problem, sir," Malcolm replied, "You were just doing your job."
Jonathan started to say something more, to argue with Malcolm, but he noticed that his admission of guilt had actually taken a lot of the fear out of Malcolm's eyes. He looked less like a whipped dog and more like his usual self. Cautious to the point of nervous, tensely expecting anything and everything to go wrong… but solid and ready to do whatever his job required, which was currently restoring the status of Jonathan Archer as the undisputed captain of the Enterprise.
"Well," Jonathan said, relieved that he wouldn't have to be sawing up a tree to complete this particular process of apology, "Just so long as we're clear on it."
"We're clear, sir," Malcolm assured him.