This is the next section. One more after this one, and we're done.

x-x

Malcolm opened his eyes and found himself staring at the wall in front of him. He frowned.

All right, that was odd. He felt...

Pushing himself up from the bench, he turned slowly and sat, taking in the room around him. The lights were dim, as they often were while he slept, and they cast the room into shades of blue.

He felt all right. Not all right like before, where something he couldn't quite put his finger on was still niggling in the background; but really all right. Even if this was a temporary respite, still, he was grateful. He felt clearer, less confused, more connected to the world around him. He felt somewhat as he had before all this had happened.

He heard a rustling noise from nearby and he turned his head, only to realise that the door was open. A curtain had been pulled across it, filtering the light that would otherwise pour in from sickbay and giving him a bit of privacy. The fabric was moving slightly. Someone had obviously just passed.

He stood unsteadily and, without thinking about it, stepped to the curtain and pulled it aside. The room beyond was bright, and he squinted, raising a hand to shield his eyes.

Phlox looked up from where he was working at one counter. Otherwise, the room was empty.

The doctor smiled and stepped in his direction. "Ah, Mr. Reed. You've been out for a while. Good to see you up and about. How are you feeling?"

"I'm not sure," Malcolm replied. "Fine," he added, for once meaning it.

"I'd expect so," Phlox replied, and his grin widened. "You should be able to go back to your own quarters in a day or so."

Malcolm grabbed the doorframe for support. "What? Why?"

"Ah, yes," Phlox said, reaching his side. He grasped Malcolm's arm and led him into the room, toward a nearby chair. "I expect you don't remember very clearly. Why don't you have a seat?" His grin grew impossibly, inhumanly wide. "We have a lot to discuss."

x-x

Malcolm tugged at the collar of his uniform, peering carefully at himself in his lavatory mirror. He looked all right, but it actually felt a bit odd, being in uniform again after so long not.

He ran a hand through his hair. Dark, as usual; only a few greys yet, despite the experiences of late. It was a bit long. He hadn't had a chance to get it cut, and it had grown out during his illness. Now, no matter what he tried to do to it, it ended up curling over his forehead. He made note to make an appointment.

His hand shook as he pushed an errant strand back, and he lowered it quickly, turning on the water from the tap and thrusting both hands under it, giving them a scrub. He was nervous as hell, if he cared to admit it. It had been some time since he'd last been on bridge duty; since he'd been on any kind of duty. It had taken him a while to become well enough to take this step. Even once they'd figured everything out, he'd needed to undergo Phlox's treatment, recover from that, then taper off the anti-psychotics and other drugs.

It could all have been so much worse. Trip might not have found the connection. By now, he'd have been back on Earth, locked away somewhere. Or the disease might have been more communicable, and everyone on the ship could have been infected. They were all of them lucky that it required the subject to touch the devices directly before they could work. As it was, it had just been him, the sole unlucky soul who'd been driven to madness.

And here he was, sane again. Lucky him.

The hallucinations had seemed so real. He still remembered... His hands stilled, and he stared up at his reflection. He looked the same as he had, before. Hair a bit longer, same pale skin, eyes still as blue, but otherwise...

He turned away, grabbing the towel from the rack beside the sink and drying his hands quickly. The pain and stiffness of the injuries he'd done himself were mostly gone. He was off the drugs, and had passed all of Phlox's many and random tests. The doctor had pronounced him well. And he felt well. What he didn't quite feel - not yet, anyway - was "himself." He huffed a small laugh as he replaced the towel. To be entirely honest, he was no longer completely sure who that "self" was.

Before, everything he'd done was centred on his being in control of himself and his environment. He'd lost that, and regained... what, exactly? He was glad to be healthy again, certainly, but mental health didn't seem to be giving him clues as to how he was supposed to live.

Add to that uncertainty the idea of stepping out onto the bridge after a long absence, the evaluating eyes of everyone on him. They'd be wondering if he'd crack again. They'd be watching for signs. It was perfectly understandable. In their place, he would be as well. But that didn't mean he had to be happy about it.

He felt the hint of a headache building, so he reached into the medicine chest for the bottle of analgesics. Opening it, he fumbled and it fell, spilling small white pills across the floor.

And with that, his door chime went. Of course.

With a sigh, he answered it.

Trip stood there, in uniform. He took one look at Malcolm and raised a brow. "You okay?"

Malcolm closed his eyes briefly, composing himself. "Sorry, yes. Come in." He stepped aside so Trip could enter.

"You look good," Trip said, eyeing Malcolm's uniform.

"Thank you," Malcolm replied, trying not to wince as he thought of his hair. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"No," Trip said with a small smile. His eyes wandered around Malcolm's cabin. "The opposite, actual -." Trip cut himself off with a frown, and Malcolm realised he probably had caught sight of the pills scattered across the lavatory floor. Trip turned concerned eyes on him.

Malcolm returned his gaze, feeling a bit sheepish. "Headache."

Trip slipped into what Malcolm liked to call his "Commader Mode". Expression serious, he asked, "Are you okay?"

Malcolm stood a bit straighter. "I'm fine, Commander."

Trip crossed his arms over his chest, one hand folded in a fist. "Did Phlox say it was all right?"

"Sorry?" Malcolm asked, having no idea what Trip was on about.

"For you to take meds and stuff, on your own?"

"I'm not an infant," Malcolm bit out. Then, realising what he'd just done, he went to attention, staring straight ahead.

"Malcolm," Trip said, warning in his tone. "If you're not feeling well, you should go to sickbay."

Malcolm stood there stiffly. If he had to spend one more second in sickbay - Trip, of all people, should realise. He almost spat back a sarcastic response, but he made the mistake of looking at Trip first. When he saw the anxiety etched on Trip's face, he couldn't help but relent. "Fine," he said, briefly closing his eyes as he exhaled the word. Trip was only worried about him. After all, at least in Trip's eyes, all this had started with a headache. "Sorry. Yes. I will."

"Okay," Trip said. "I'll walk you there."

Malcolm couldn't help but let his response show on his face. If the man clearly thought him incapable of even that simple thing, what must Trip think of him going back to work?

Trip's eyes widened. "Not that I..." He rolled his eyes self-mockingly. "It's not like that." He held up a hand and unfurled its fingers, revealing an angry red welt on his palm. Now it was Trip's turn to look sheepish. "Burned myself in engineering. I was on my way there anyway."

"Oh," Malcolm said, feeling like a complete git.

"Yeah, 'Oh.' So don't be so paranoid -" Tripped stopped himself, his look of shock sliding into a nervous wince. "Sorry. Shit."

Malcolm felt that one in his gut, but he kept his face carefully composed. People were going to say things like that. If he was sensitive about the subject, that was his problem, not theirs. Trying to cover his disquiet, he said, "No, it's all right, Commander. Paranoia's an occupational hazard. Helps with the job."

Trip looked grateful. With a smile, he clapped Malcolm on the back, and they left the room, heading toward Sickbay. "So, you kind of missed a lot while you were..."

"Nuts?" Malcolm asked neutrally. He glanced at Trip, keeping his expression purposefully open, letting Trip off the hook.

Trip shrugged. Then he smiled. "Or something."

"Such as..." Malcolm said, leading Trip back to the topic at hand.

"Travis finally beat Hoshi in poker."

"You are not serious," Malcolm said, genuinely surprised. "How?"

As Trip started explaining, eyes flashing and hands moving as he described the events in detail, they proceeded down the corridor. Malcolm let the words flow over him, not paying much attention to what, precisely, was being said, and more to how his friend was saying it. Trip had his entire focus on Malcolm as they walked, so much so that he nearly crashed into a crewmember as they rounded a corner.

Trip turned a complete circle as he passed the woman, eyes on her backside, eyebrows raised in appreciation as she travelled away from them, all the while still in animated description of Travis versus Hoshi. Malcolm had to try hard to smother a laugh.

Leave it to Trip to find a way to both lower his anxiety level and help him feel more connected with his crewmates. He'd bet that Trip had this entire conversation planned out. He wouldn't even be surprised if Trip had purposefully bumped that woman, although that might be stretching things a bit. Still, the man was a master.

Trip probably didn't realise that Malcolm knew what he was doing, but at this point, Malcolm knew the man well enough to know when he was being played. But if it worked, it worked. After all, what else were friends for, than to help one take those first steps on one's path back to sanity and some sort of normal life?

Trip laughed and clapped him on the back, and Malcolm found himself returning that smile.

It was good to be back.

x-x

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