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x-x
Trip turned away as the medics restrained his friend. He couldn't watch. He couldn't listen. He couldn't stay there. He rushed through the door and started walking the corridors, not caring where he ended up.
Malcolm had been babbling incoherent nonsense. He'd been covered in blood. He'd been crouched on the floor. How had...? Why...? What had Phlox been doing, leaving Malcolm alone like that? Although Malcolm had been restrained, and knowing Phlox's work, it had been done well, and the medics had obviously been quite close by. So, not the doctor's fault.
How'd Malcolm gotten out, anyway? The Doc probably hadn't been expecting that. And sickbay certainly was not set up for anyone who... who was like Malcolm. The brig would probably work better. But the brig was certainly no place for anyone who was sick. But Malcolm clearly needed, God, he'd hurt himself, and it had almost been worse, so much worse. If Ramjattan hadn't seen what he'd been about to do and grabbed his arm, it could have been so much worse.
Trip stopped in his tracks. Malcolm obviously needed more care than they could provide here. Maybe a mental health facility back home, someplace secure, was really not such a bad idea. At least they'd be able to protect him from himself.
Normally, if the situation were short-term, Starfleet Mental Health would deal with it. But if it was long term... He knew that Malcolm wasn't on the best terms with his family, but still, he might need to be closer to home than the Starfleet facilities in San Francisco. If he got treatment and he stabilized, he might be able to leave the hospital, but he would need a support system so that things didn't crash back in on him. He'd need his family.
Trip knew the dangers of this disease, from his aunt. Even with family all around, there had been times when she'd gone off. He remembered one time she'd stopped taking her meds, and ended up driving from Florida to Pennsylvania in search of some ashram. By the time she'd reached Pennsylvania, she was driving only 30 miles per hour up the high-speed lane of the interstate, with a line of police in tow. Luckily, once they'd gotten her stopped, they'd realised she wasn't okay. They'd recognised that she was ill, rather than something else, and treated her as such. Still, his mum had needed to fly up to Pennsylvania to drive her sister's vehicle home, deal with getting her into treatment, then deal with her home and job in Florida. After a while, his aunt had returned home, started working again, and settled back into her life. But if his mother hadn't been there to help? He couldn't imagine what his aunt's life would be like if she didn't have such a support system around her.
He didn't think the captain had told Malcolm's parents yet. Maybe it was time.
x-x
Malcolm woke and immediately wanted to flee into the darkness again. He could, too, he could feel the pull of the drugs, and the temptation was there to let go, swim away on the currents and not come back. Not even try to come back. He had tried. He'd taken the drugs. He hadn't wanted to see what he had. He'd tried to ignore it. He'd tried.
Shifting slightly on the bed, he felt the tug of restraints and hissed out a sharp breath as they hit his wrists. It wasn't exactly painful - he was too drugged up for that - but it was uncomfortable.
There was movement nearby and his eyes flashed open. Blue walls, a small room. He wasn't in sickbay. Where was he?
Phlox stood over him, gaze sharp. "Lieutenant, are you with us?" he asked, motioning offstage for someone to come closer. A medic stepped in, checking his restraints.
"Where am I?"
"The isolation room, just off sickbay," Phlox answered, eyes on the monitors that were part of the wall.
"Decon?" Malcolm asked. "Why?"
"You'd become violent. We needed to put you someplace more secure."
Malcolm frowned. They'd put him here for protection, but for him or for those around him, he wasn't certain.
Phlox flashed a light in his eyes, and Malcolm winced and turned toward the wall. As Phlox said something which he missed, his eyes caught on the pattern in the surface before him. He'd never really noticed it before. It wasn't smooth, as on first appearance. It was actually made up of a series of...
The doctor's voice interrupted his reverie. "Mr. Reed? Are you still with us?"
"Yes," Malcolm answered, still staring at the wall.
"Do you remember what happened?"
Malcolm turned his head and stared up at Phlox. He did remember, all too well. He could remember it all, but it wasn't linear. Shards of memory like broken pieces of a mirror that had been spilled on the ground and then mixed together, images reflecting this bit of sky, that tree. Scenes flew through his mind, superimposed upon each other, reflected back at him: the alien and Trip, and the alien's face, and the alien inside him, all slick and slithery, filling him, and was it still there now? He felt panic rising in him with the uncertainty.
"Don't struggle," Phlox said. "You've been restrained."
"Why?" Malcolm asked, although he knew why.
"You were hallucinating, and you did some damage to yourself."
Malcolm knew that, and it wasn't important. Other things were more important. "Trip?" he asked.
"He's fine," Phlox said, turning to the medic beside him and accepting the padd the man offered.
"Is it still in me?" Malcolm asked.
Phlox's gaze connected with that of the medic before it moved back to Malcolm. "It?"
Malcolm closed his eyes, not bothering to continue. The doctor didn't understand. He couldn't. But maybe Trip could. The alien had been there in sickbay and Trip must have seen it. Perhaps Trip could tell him how to know if it had gone.
"Can I see Trip?"
"We're not allowing visitors right now."
"Why not?" Malcolm said, opening his eyes.
Phlox had been entering something into the padd, but he looked up at Malcolm's question. "We need to get you stabilised first."
"I need to see him," Malcolm added, a hint of desperation entering his tone.
Phlox placed a quick hand on his arm. "Perhaps tomorrow."
"Perhaps," Malcolm echoed. "Perhaps, perhaps." Perhaps he'd see Trip tomorrow. Perhaps he'd get better if he took his medications. Perhaps the alien was in him. Perhaps... maybe all this was in his head, because none of this made sense.
But he'd do what they said. He was a good boy, a good officer, did his duty, followed orders. He'd take his meds. He'd stay in decon. He'd answer their questions, make up what they wanted to hear, anything. If it meant that he'd be well again. If it meant that the alien would be gone, and Enterprise would be safe. His friends would be safe. He'd do whatever they wanted.
x-x
Malcolm on the bed with his legs crossed beneath him, staring down at his hands, which were sitting loosely in his lap. The only signs that he'd ever been restrained were the red welts at his wrists, poking out beyond the bandages. He flexed the fingers of his right hand, hissing against the pull where Phlox had repaired the cut to his palm. He didn't even try his left, which was still braced and wrapped. Gingerly, he raised his arms to the side, and then up toward the ceiling, lifting his head as he did so. It didn't seem like a lot, but it was wonderfully freeing to be able to move even this much, after having been restrained. His eyes moved to the door. He might have been granted that small freedom, but he was still trapped in here.
He knew the ship wasn't actually equipped to deal with this. He, of all people, certainly understood the need to keep his movements controlled; something that was not possible in sickbay proper. All things considered, decon was not so bad. It could be worse. He could still be strapped to a bed. He could be in the brig. He'd certainly have put himself there. He supposed he'd have to thank the captain for allowing him this measure of freedom, once... if all this... once he was well.
Malcolm fiddled with the bandages on his braced hand, worrying their edges with his fingers. The idea that this, whatever this was, might be something he'd have to deal with throughout his life; that frightened him. Terrified him, if he was being entirely honest. His fingers unravelled a bit of the bandage, and he smoothed it down nervously. He didn't want to think about it. At the moment, he had quite enough to deal with without having to think beyond today. And today, he felt... He shrugged despite the fact that there was no one there to see. He felt all right. No, that wasn't right. Not... Not himself, not entirely, but not... God, at least he wasn't... Anyway, temporary respite or not, he was glad for it. They'd changed his meds, and they were making him feel a bit odd, and his mind was racing a mile a minute and he couldn't stop it, but at least he hadn't had another hallucination, and the voices seemed to have stopped. And, according to Phlox, he was more in touch with the reality around him. His lips pursed. Even if that reality was a tiny room off sickbay proper.
He slid forward on the bed - what was actually a bench - and placed his stocking feet on the floor. He stood slowly, keeping his arm pressed against the wall beside him, and took an unsteady step. At least the room was being kept warm. He was wearing nothing but sickbay garb, and other than the fixtures, there was little else in the small space, not even sheets. He smiled, suddenly realising why.
He walked the length of the room, taking each step deliberately. One foot, then the next. Nothing natural about it. Step. Step. Strange, to have to consciously think about how to walk. But he was afraid that if he didn't, he'd forget how, and what? Fall over? Float away? He felt shaky, as if he'd had far too much caffeine, but under it all, he was tired - tired of how he was feeling, tired of being confined, tired of being ill, of fighting, of being alone.
Still, being by himself was probably for the best. He wasn't sure he'd be able to keep himself together if he was on public display. As it was, the captain had been by earlier, and their conversation, if you could call it that, had pretty much been limited to Archer asking him questions, and his answering shrugs. Honestly, he just couldn't be bothered. He hadn't the energy. His lip quirked thinking of that visit; if there were to be more, he'd need to expand his repertoire of belligerent, sullen teenage responses.
Returning to the bench, he sat with his legs pulled up in front of him, arms around them. After a moment, he could feel himself rocking slightly, but he let it go, because he knew he probably couldn't stop, and it would be better if he didn't try.
He didn't like this - being out of control, not being sure if what he was seeing was real or something else. They'd told him he was ill; that he was, in effect, mad. Insanity seemed as good an explanation as any, but knowing he was mad wasn't particularly helpful, as it didn't make the crazy things stop happening. He'd really rather they stop happening, whatever their cause.
He heard someone enter the chamber beyond the decon cell, then a loud "snick" as the window to his room opened.
"Hey, Malcolm."
At Trip's voice, Malcolm turned his head to the right. "Commander," he said in greeting, keeping it formal. He almost laughed at that thought. After all, how formally could he be coming across at the moment? He tried to smother his grin.
Trip was in uniform, and there was a smudge of dark oil on one shoulder, so he was likely coming from his duty shift. His face was serious, his eyes shuttered as he asked, "How are you feeling?" his voice only slightly distorted by the clear partition between them.
Malcolm shrugged, unsure of what to say. It was a bit of a loaded question, that. He felt... He felt... He felt a lot of things. He wasn't sure of how to answer.
Trip settled onto the tall stool Phlox had pulled up for visitors. "I'd stopped by yesterday," he said, expression showing his discomfort. "You weren't really yourself."
Malcolm tilted his head to the side, acknowledging the point. Trip was likely right. He himself couldn't really remember, not all of it. They'd been playing cards - that had to be several days ago, now. After that, his memory; it was as if it had large holes in it, blanks where he knew he'd been awake, and yet couldn't recall what he'd been doing.
"Phlox said you're feeling better now." Trip didn't sound entirely convinced.
"No sheets," Malcolm said with a slight laugh.
Trip's brow wrinkled in confusion. "Excuse me?"
Malcolm glanced down at the bench below him. "They left me without sheets, fearing I might hurt myself." He looked over at Trip again. "They think that's what I was trying, but I wasn't." He hugged his legs tighter. "I don't think they believe I'm entirely well."
Trip nodded slowly. Obviously, he didn't, either.
They fell into silence and Malcolm laid his arms across his knees, resting his chin there. After a while, he let his eyes fall shut. He wasn't well, not at all, and he knew that, or thought he did, but, "I remember being well not that long ago," he said aloud, giving voice to his thoughts. "So what has changed? Which particular foreign god have I angered, or alien device have I touched, or strange food have I eaten, or...?" He sighed.
Trip tried to interject with, "Phlox said -"
Malcolm ran right over him, his voice low enough to be nearly inaudible. "It can't have been long ago. The voices only started after that mission, didn't they? Or maybe they'd been there all along, and I'd not realised. Maybe it took being in that room, or touching the basin, or breathing the air, or seeing the writing, to finally get me to really listen?"
Eyes still closed, Malcolm had nearly drifted off when he was startled by Trip's voice.
"Are you still hallucinating?"
Before he could stop himself, he answered, "I wouldn't know, would I?" his words sharp. He heard Trip hiss in a breath, and he opened his eyes. "Sorry," he murmured, staring at the opposite wall rather than at his friend. "I suppose I did know, in a way. Or do, when it happens. But the hallucinations felt so real, it was impossible not to react." He turned his body to fully face Trip, legs dangling off the bench, hands clenching its frame as he stared through the partition. Their eyes met, and Malcolm could tell that this entire situation had Trip on edge, although on the surface he was hiding it fairly well. The dark circles under his eyes, the hands he held tightly clenched in his lap; it was the small details gave him away.
Malcolm leaned forward. "I'd like to ask you something. It may seem strange." Trip raised an eyebrow as if to say he'd seen some fairly odd things from Malcolm lately, and Malcolm's lip went up in response. "Sorry. At least right now I know it's strange."
Trip nodded. "Ask away."
Malcolm steeled himself, and said, "I'd thought there was an alien."
Trip nodded again. "I know that."
"It was right beside you. But that's not right, yes? You didn't feel or see anything."
Trip shook his head, back straightening. "No."
"Then the alien moved into me, and I'm not, or, I wasn't..." Malcolm shook his head as he tore his eyes away, heart beating painfully in his chest. When he returned his gaze to meet Trip's, his friend's eyes were wary. "How do I know it's not in me now?"
"Malcolm..." Trip said hesitantly.
Malcolm stood and went to the window between them, placing one hand against its surface. "I still don't feel right. How do I know if it's the illness..." he pressed his palm hard against his forehead, "...or if the alien isn't still -"
"There is no alien," Trip interrupted firmly, hands clenched into fists.
"Right," Malcolm said, wiping a hand over his face. He pounded that hand softly against the partition, then pushed away. "Sorry. I'm still having a hard time." He sighed, consciously relaxing his shoulders, and said what he knew Trip needed to hear. "I know it's not real." He tried for a smile. "I sometimes get confused. Sorry."
"Hopefully, that'll pass."
"God, I do hope so," Malcolm said with genuine emotion. "I don't like this."
"Yeah," Trip replied. "We want you to come back to us, Malcolm."
At this, Malcolm did smile. "I'm working on it."
"I know," Trip said, voice soft.
Malcolm turned and paced the length of the room. "When do you think Phlox might let me out of here? I'm not, I won't -" He faced Trip again, coming right up against the partition. "I'm so bloody sorry, Trip. I didn't mean to... Ah, bugger," he murmured as he felt the tears come despite his best efforts to control himself. Ah, no. Not this, not now.
"I know," Trip repeated, leaning forward and placing a hand, palm flat, against the glass.
"Sorry, I'm sorry," Malcolm said quickly, hand shielding his eyes. He was trying hard to stop. He hated crying, never did it. Now that he'd started, he wasn't entirely sure how to stop.
Giving up, he sank onto the bench. He'd nothing to look forward to but days and days of this, of being in here alone with nothing to do but think. Introspection was not always a positive. He felt as if he was wobbling on the edge of sanity and something else, and he really, really didn't want to know that something else. If he thought about it too hard, or got too close, he might tumble over. He didn't know if he'd make it out. He didn't even know how to try.
He only realised he'd said that last aloud when Trip responded.
"What do you mean?" Trip asked gently.
"I mean... I don't..." He turned to Trip. "It's as if my world came crashing down on me, crushing me beneath the rubble, and I can't..." He let his voice fade off, unsure of how to finish. He huffed a small, mirthless laugh.
Trip's voice finally broke the silence. "You have to."
"I don't know that I can." Malcolm looked away. He felt beaten down, broken. The very thought of gathering together the energy to fight this thing was beyond his abilities.
"That's the illness -"
Malcolm waved a hand, dismissing that. "I know. Maybe. I don't know."
The crackle of the speaker interrupted them. "Two minutes more, Commander." That was Phlox's voice.
Malcolm heard Trip slide off the stool. "I'm here for you, you know that, right?"
Malcolm nodded, still not looking at his friend.
"See you tomorrow."
Malcolm heard the window slide shut, and he curled up on the bench, staring off into space and trying not to think. Not of the end of his career, his life, everything he'd built for himself. Not of being trapped in here. Not of the alien that was or was not inside him. Not of what his family would think. Not of what he'd done to his crewmates, the things he'd put them through. Not of what he'd done to Trip.
Trip had become the closest thing to a friend he had on board. Maybe the closest thing he had to a friend, full stop.
He wanted this to stop. It had to stop. He'd rather die. He'd much prefer to die than to live with his head like this. With his life like this. With the hurt. With the pain he'd end up putting his family through. His friends. He'd rather...
"Don't think," he murmured, almost whispering the words. "Don't think. Don't. Think. Don't."
x-x
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