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Oh, poor, dear Malcolm.

Warning: squick alert.

x-x

Trip slid the playing card across the floor, taking another from the pile they'd laid out before them. He tucked the new card into his hand and waited for Malcolm to play his turn.

It had taken some doing, but Trip finally got Phlox and the captain to agree to release Malcolm to quarters. The meds seemed to be working, and since there were no long-term facilities in sickbay, and the place wasn't equipped for treating mental health issues anyway, Phlox had finally agreed, subject to certain conditions: and that there was someone inside with Malcolm whenever possible, that there was a guard outside the door when Malcolm was alone, and that he be monitored twenty-four/seven.

Trip felt like it was overkill. Malcolm hadn't had another hallucination since Phlox had put him on the medications and, although he wasn't always acting one-hundred-percent himself, he was, thinking engineering-wise, within six standard deviations of normal. Well under the bell curve. Totally six-sigma.

Trip himself was trying to spend as much of his off-time with Malcolm as he could. He knew that Hoshi, Travis, Jon, and even T'Pol had also been visiting. All good. He knew, if he had to spend all his time in his quarters, he'd get kind of antsy, but Malcolm seemed to be doing all right, and it was a significant improvement over sickbay - at least it afforded the man some privacy.

And so now Malcolm was trying to teach him how to play a card game called "Uno." Travis had actually had the Uno cards, and had left them behind in Malcolm's room so others could play. So far, he thought that Malcolm was beating the pants off of him, but he wasn't yet sure enough of the rules to be certain.

Malcolm still hadn't played his hand, so Trip reached over with a card and tapped him on the knee. "You still with me?"

Malcolm looked up from his cards, expression unreadable. "Sorry. Yes. I was just..." He didn't finish the sentence, instead frowning slightly.

Trip put down his cards, tension crawling up his spine. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Malcolm said, his smile strained. His eyes flashed from Trip, to the door, to the bureau, and back to Trip. "I'm fine."

"So why aren't you playing?"

Malcolm glanced down at the cards in his hands. "Oh. Yes. I'd forgotten." He looked up again.

Trip put down his cards. Now he was seriously worried. "Something's bugging you. Out with it."

Malcolm stared at him for a moment, as if unsure of how he should respond. Finally, he tossed his own cards onto the floor in exasperation. "I feel like I'm..." He hesitated, shook his head, then continued. "It's as if I'm waiting for that next... what have you."

Trip sucked in a breath. "Maybe nothing else will happen."

"Maybe." Malcolm grabbed at the cards before them, pulling them into the pile. He began shuffling it, his movements jerky and a bit frantic.

Trip waited, knowing that his friend needed time.

Malcolm said this next so quietly that Trip almost missed it. "I'm afraid I'm losing control."

Trip knew the man well enough to realise the import of that statement. After a moment, he said, "Why do you think that?" keeping his voice equally as soft.

Malcolm stared down at the cards flowing through his hands. "It's..." He frowned, and his gaze went from the cards to the empty space over Trip's shoulder. He shut his eyes. "I can't help it. I don't want to see them, or hear, but I keep doing so." He opened them, and Trip could tell immediately that something had changed.

Tension building, Trip made to push up from the floor. He tried to keep his movements slow and calm, so as not to spook his friend. "You need to tell Phlox -" The rest of Trip's comment was cut off by the force of Malcolm's body as he plowed into him.

Malcolm shouted something that Trip didn't catch, and he flew back, head slamming into the deck, Malcolm on top of him, head up, eyes searching for something that Trip couldn't see.

Malcolm pushed away from him, leaving him on the floor, dazed, as the man headed for the door.

Trip's head swam slightly as he tried to focus on what happened next. The door opened. There were medics there. One of them looked in his direction, rather than at Malcolm, and that's all it took - Malcolm was pushing through them, making for the open door. They grappled with him and one of them shot something into Malcolm's arm, which immediately dropped him to the floor.

Next he knew, one of the medics was kneeling beside him, looking into his eyes. "Are you all right, Commander?"

Trip nodded sharply, regretting the motion as his vision shifted.

The medic said something about a concussion, but Trip ignored him, instead letting his eyes rest on Malcolm. The other medics were around his unconscious form. What had just happened? Malcolm had obviously seen something. But the meds had been working, damn it. Hadn't they?

He hadn't wanted to believe it, what Phlox had said. He'd hoped it was stress. Or...or exhaustion. Or anything other than -

He believed it now.

x-x

Malcolm woke in sickbay, pain flashing through his hands, arms, shoulders and back. In a panic, he tried to sit, but he had been restrained. He struggled against the bonds at his wrists and ankles and felt the bite as they cut into the skin, but he didn't care, he had to get out, to -

A face loomed above him, his blurred vision making it hard to make out at first. He recognised it as Phlox as soon as the doctor spoke.

"Lieutenant Reed. Can you hear me?

"Let me go!" Malcolm shouted, practically growling in his frustration. His throat hurt as if he had been yelling for some time. He didn't remember yelling. He and Trip had been playing cards. Why was he here?

"You've been hallucinating." Phlox said firmly. A medic moved into view nearby, and only then did Malcolm notice the IV dripping into his left arm. "We're adjusting your medications." His eyes flashed to the monitors bleeping madly, their tone steadily rising. Phlox hove into view again. "I don't want to sedate you unless I must. But if you don't calm down, you won't leave me a choice."

"Malcolm?"

Malcolm twisted his head from side to side, trying to block out the voice. It wasn't fair. He'd taken the bloody meds. He'd done what they'd asked, and still, and still...

"Malcolm." Quite close this time, and he twisted his head in that direction, trying to see, but the medic pulled the curtain closed in a harsh scrape of metal, cutting off his view of the rest of the room.

Malcolm let out an inarticulate groan. He could feel heat in his cheeks, pressure in his chest, in his head, as he struggled against the restraints. The medic's hands were on his shoulders, pushing him down as he strained upward, feeling slickness as the restraints bit into his skin. And he could smell the blood, sharp and tangy, iron in the air around him, filling his senses, his vision going red as he shouted.

The curtain was tugged back to reveal Archer's concerned face. "Shouldn't you sedate him?"

Malcolm fought to catch his breath, and he kept his eyes on Archer as Phlox replied, "I'm not sure how it will react with his medications."

Just beyond the captain, Malcolm caught a glimpse of the alien standing there, its dark, impassive eyes watching. Always watching. "What do you want?" he yelled. He redoubled his struggles, feeling a sharp pain at his wrists as he twisted them desperately.

Phlox raised his voice to be heard over the shouts. "No choice. If he crashes, we'll deal with that as it comes."

Archer barked sharply, "Do it."

There was movement around him, something changed, and he felt himself sliding away. He tried to care. He wanted to struggle. He couldn't. He turned his head to the ceiling and stared at the light above him, watching as it haloed out in concentric circles, his lids getting heavier as he caught the last bit of what Phlox was saying.

"...should keep him out until morning."

He let his eyes drift shut as Archer replied, "I'll post a guard outside."

And that was fine. He didn't need to get outside. All he needed was right here in the room with him.

x-x

Malcolm woke. Time had passed. His breath caught and he held himself still, listening for movement or voices around him. Nothing. Nothing. Just the usual sounds of sickbay at rest. Whirr, hiss, go the monitors. Buzz, flutter goes Phlox's bat. The pound of his pulse in his ears; his breath, whisper quiet as he inhaled.

He was drifting, so he clenched his hands into fists, trying to remain focused. He could feel the sedatives trying to drag him back into the darkness. He couldn't let them. The alien could be right there in sickbay with him. He had to stay awake.

He opened his eyes slightly, then fully when he saw that no one was there. The room was dim around him, and the curtain had been drawn around his bed, blocking his view of the rest of the space. He twisted his wrists and found they'd been bandaged, the cloth softening the edges of the restraints. But. But. If. If he could... If he... He slowed his movements, focusing his effort and will on his wrists as he twisted them. If he could get the bandages to fray and open his wounds again, he could use the slickness of the blood to help him slip out. Slow and steady. Patience would serve. He ground his wrists against the restraints, ignoring the signals of pain, trying to keep the movements small, keep his breathing slow and even so as not to set off the monitors and call attention to what he was doing. One of the things he'd learnt in the not-so-distant past was to free himself from restraints, and he'd actually become rather good at it. Found he'd enjoyed the challenge, and that setting aside physical pain in that way could almost be meditative. Put aside the needs of the body for the greater goal. Or, as Trip might say, eyes on the prize. His heart skipped a beat, thinking about Trip. Something was there, tickling the edges of his memory. He shrugged it off, redoubling his efforts, smiling as he felt the gauze on his left wrist begin to fray. If Phlox had known about the type of training he'd received, he'd obviously have used better equipment. Ah, but that part of his past was classified. Dead. Buried. The edge of the restraint cut into his skin and he focused on that, on using the pain, funnelling it as it increased. Moving that one wrist. Finally, his skin was slick enough, his hand numb enough that he compressed and slid it out.

Fast, now. Before he was discovered. Fumbling fingers, hard to move, he'd done some damage, likely, but it wasn't important. He could deal with that later. He reached over his stomach and undid the latch that released his other hand.

He sat up carefully, slowly, so silent. Shh... He used his good hand to undo his legs. He let them fall over the edge of the bed and he sat there a moment, head down, trying to find equilibrium. The sedative was a strong one, and he could feel it trying to take him as his eyes dropped shut. He sat there, breathing into the moment. Pain was radiating up through his arms, so he focused on that and dragged his eyes open. Ragged remnants of bandages wrapped his wrists, and there was blood flowing freely from his left hand, dripping down the curve of his fingers, disappearing into the distance as it fell.

He raised his head and the room swam around him. Sliding off the mattress, he let his feet fall to the floor, trusting that they'd hit their mark, as he couldn't tell if the floor was really there. It was. He took a step toward the curtain, but the tug of the IV and monitoring lines in his arm brought him back to the bed, so he wrapped the arm of his bad hand around the pole and dragged it with him. Two steps brought him to the curtain, and he stepped through, careful not to move it too much lest it screech and give him away.

He could hear voices, now. Two, both male: the medics, Ensigns O'Neill and Ramjattan. Not close, though. In the supply room, or perhaps Phlox's office. But not close. Quickly. He had to work quickly.

He stood there a moment, swaying on his feet. He was finally here, and he hadn't thought of what he'd do next. He blinked, trying to clear his vision. Phlox kept scalpels and things of that sort in a locked drawer just there, only steps away, surely he could...

A stumbling movement brought him to the cabinet, and with the hand he'd not damaged in his escape, he fiddled with its lock and opened it - another handy skill - and stared down at its contents. Head swimming now, he was having trouble making them out, so he grabbed something blindly, cutting his fingers on its edge. Didn't matter what it was. It was sharp, and that was all that mattered.

He didn't think the alien was in sickbay at this moment. He wasn't sure how he knew, just that he did. But it wouldn't be long. That bloody thing had shown up before. It would again. He needed to be ready. But he had to sit down. Now. His legs folded beneath him and he slumped to the floor, his back to the cabinet so he was facing the door. All right. He might not be able to make a pre-emptive strike, but he could defend himself if the thing came after him.

Eyelids drooping, he realised the sedative was going to overcome him if he didn't do something, anything to keep himself on point. Something. He shivered, suddenly realising that he was cold. Stupid sickbay clothing, more token than anything.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed when he heard the door open and someone, from across the room, said, "Malcolm?"

His head shot up, weapon out and ready.

"Malcolm, what are you doing?"

It was Trip's voice.

Heart beating madly, eyes wide in shock and confusion, Malcolm frowned and the scene shifted and snapped into focus. Trip was standing in the doorway, bruises on his face, a cut on his lip where he'd... where Malcolm had hit him, and he remembered in a rush, head clearing as if the confusion had never been there. The tour of the archeological site. The buildings. Being fine until they'd returned to ship, and then, and then...

He hissed in a breath and closed his eyes against the memories. "I... I had to, to be sure, I wasn't... If it came back, I..." Malcolm suspected he was rambling and his words weren't making sense, but he was unable to stop. "After... the room was so...and the basin, the building, the words were everywhere, it..."

"Malcolm, it's all right. I'm going to call for help. Just... put down the knife," Trip said, his voice gentle.

Malcolm's hand shook. He lowered his eyes to the handle clenched in his fist, willing his fingers to open. There was blood along the edge of the blade, smeared on both the handle and on the hand holding it. He heard Trip speaking to someone - likely the medics had heard his voice, and had entered the room.

The scene swam out of focus and he looked up as - God, the alien was there, right beside him, and he panicked. He tried to scramble back but the cabinet trapped him there, and so quick, it was on him, then in him, it was in him! And he realised what he needed to do. The only way to protect the ship, his crewmates, and Trip. And so he slashed, trying to do damage, not caring if it hurt, but something grabbed his hand before he could make contact and there were shouts, activity all around him and the knife was gone, and there were hands on him, and he struggled, eyes frantically searching out the knife, because he needed it, how could they not see that thing was in him? And he couldn't breathe, pressure in his chest, the taste of blood on his tongue as head rushing everything was so loud, too bright, too much.

Trip's voice, calling to him, calling his name as he felt himself come loose and break apart.

x-x