A knock on his door caused Malcolm to look up. He took in the space around him. They'd moved him yesterday. He'd forgotten. He was no longer in a cell. Now, it was more of a… he blinked, trying to clear his vision. More of a hospital patient room. Likely no less secure for that. He looked to the ceiling, seeing no pipes. Possibly more secure, actually; or at least safer.
At least he thought they'd moved him yesterday. He was suddenly less sure. The bed he was sitting on seemed familiar. There was a window on the wall, letting in sunlight, and another, smaller window in the door itself. A desk, a chair, all seeming familiar. The bed he was sitting on. His legs were crossed under him, his back against the wall behind him. He wondered where Trip had gone. The man had been impossible to escape, earlier, and now, he was gone. He felt like he'd seen Dr. Furman as well. And Phlox? Maybe it was the drugs. He knew they had… he could feel their effect on him, and he thought he remembered… God, he was tired. He felt anchored there. Heavy. Leaden. His body. His head. He couldn't… He curled the white blanket below him into his hand, feeling its texture. The slight roughness of cotton rather than the softness of a microfiber. He smoothed the fabric out again, thinking that he may have been sitting there for a while.
The door opened as the knock came again. A man peered around its edge. An orderly or nurse… Khalid… something. He recognized him, realizing he'd obviously been in this room for longer than he thought, if we was recognizing the nursing staff.
"You have a visitor," Khalid said. He stepped aside, waving in someone from behind him. Archer. Captain Archer. Here in uniform, made slightly more casual by the open button at the collar.
"Hey, Malcolm." Archer smiled slightly, although it didn't touch his eyes. He grabbed a chair, turning it to face Malcolm as he slid into it. He crossed one leg over the other, resting his hands on his knee.
Malcolm considered the man. Archer looked a bit the worse for wear, his tiredness showing around his eyes. "How long have I been here?" Malcolm asked.
Archer looked a bit surprised at that question, although it was obvious he was trying to hide his reaction. "Two weeks, give or take."
Malcolm cocked his head to the side, trying to remember. "Have you been here before?" he asked, unsure. He thought he might recall the captain having visited, but as with his memory of Trip, he wasn't sure if that was real, or just a figment of his imagination. Archer nodded, but before he could speak, Malcolm added, "Sorry, Captain. They've got me 'drugged to the gills', as Trip described it, and I'm having a hard time tracking."
"Don't worry about it," Archer said. "I was here about a week ago with Trip. Do you remember?"
Malcolm froze. Maybe this Archer wasn't the real Archer at all. If he'd been here with Trip, he couldn't possibly be. Testing his theory, he said, using his utmost to appear calm, "Trip's dead."
Archer uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, closing the distance between them. "Trip's not dead," he said.
"No, he is," Malcolm said, his voice shaking despite his best efforts.
Archer shook his head, eyes gone from tiredness to concerned wariness in a flash. "His mom's here visiting with him."
"But Trip was here," Malcolm said.
"Yes, with me, when I visited," Archer replied, his voice calm but his eyes far from it.
"That's not what I meant. And I saw you," Malcolm said flatly.
"Saw me doing what?" Archer asked cautiously.
"You and T'Pol, packing up Trip's stuff to send it home to his family.
"That didn't - "
"I saw you," Malcolm insisted, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward on the bed, fingers splayed across its surface.
"What did you…?" Archer paused, seeming to consider something. "Were you there helping?"
"No, I was…" Malcolm hesitated, trying to remember more clearly. He could recall the scene. Archer and T'Pol, talking. But it was like he was an observer, not a participant. "I don't know."
"We never packed up Trip's stuff," Archer said firmly. "Trip didn't die. He's very much alive, here in San Francisco, visiting with his mom right now."
Malcolm shook his head. He slid to the edge of the bed and made to stand, feeling Archer's hand on his arm when he stumbled.
"Maybe you should sit down," Archer said from beside him, his voice quiet.
"No, I'm…" Malcolm said, sliding away from Archer's grip. He knew that Trip was dead; he'd died trying to save Archer when Enterprise had been boarded. That move with the plasma relays. So unlike the man – not in that he woudn't step in to save the captain, of course he would. But to have died like that…?
Malcolm walked to the wall, putting a palm to it, feeling a reassuring coolness. Head down, he could sense Archer's presence behind him, no doubt ready to step in should he need it. But he needed to be up, moving. He needed… there was a lot that he needed. He turned and, back to the wall, let himself slide down to a seat on the floor. "I'm good, I'm just…" Tired. Drugged. Hallucinating – Trip, Archer, or both, he wasn't entirely sure. Off his rocker, that was certain. Mad. Doubting everything. Pulling his legs up, he draped his arms across his knees and let his chin rest on them, eyes closed. "Just so bloody tired," he heard himself say.
Malcolm heard Archer move beside him, squat down and, being the touchy feely man that he is, place a hand on Malcolm's arm. "Trip's very much alive."
And with that, Malcolm started to cry, or to laugh – he wasn't sure which – because that was exactly what Trip himself had been insisting all along.
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