Thanks to everyone who's reading this!

volley: It's true, Malcolm does get sick in almost every story ;)...

Begoogled: Thank you! I think I can say without giving away too much that we will meet the rest of the crew, but it is going to take a while yet...

lunaz: Glad you're enjoying the story, and things are going to get worse for the boys yet...

Thanks for reviewing!

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Chapter 4

Trip slipped his blue undershirt over his head, grimacing at the smell that assaulted his nostrils. He laid the shirt aside and looked over at Malcolm, who was standing in front of the sinks. His overall was lowered to his bare waist and he had a pile of paper towels next to him, which he was using to clean his face, arms and neck. The water in his sink was rapidly turning gray.

Trip pulled a handful of towels out of the dispenser, then walked over to the sinks to tend to his own, long overdue ablutions. The basin next to Malcolm's was already filled with water, with blobs of pinkish liquid soap floating on the surface.

"Thanks," he said to Malcolm who only nodded, intent on scrubbing his armpits. Out of the corner of his eye, Trip noticed that every single one of Malcolm's ribs was visible under the skin, outlined by a pattern of dirt. Not that he himself looked any better; after more than two weeks without access to bathroom facilities, he was surprised people weren't dropping left, right and center when he entered a room. Tom and Malcolm didn't mind, of course; Tom had no business accusing anyone of emitting unpleasant body odors, and Malcolm couldn't smell anyway with his nose clogged like a stopped-up drainpipe.

Trip folded a bunch of paper towels and soaked them in the soapy water, then began wiping down his arms. Tiny gray droplets tickled across his skin, and he grimaced. As long as he didn't have to face it, the dirt had simply become part of his body, like his grimy clothes or the cold sores. Now, he suddenly couldn't wait to be clean again.

He proceeded to wash his face and neck. Next to him, Malcolm had bent down over the sink and was using both hands to massage pink soap into his hair. Trip wasn't sure if it was a good idea for Malcolm to wash his hair when he had a fever and was faced with the prospect of returning into a cold and windy afternoon, but he said nothing. Malcolm wouldn't be deterred anyway; it had been his idea to sneak into the public library to use their bathroom, and he seemed determined to make the most of it.

After he had rinsed his hair under the faucet, Malcolm straightened up again and shook his head. Small drops of water sprinkled on the mirror, and Trip grinned. With his hair wet and sticking up like that, Malcolm reminded him of a cat coming in out of the rain, soaked and disgruntled.

"What's so f... funny?" Malcolm cleared his throat, but it didn't help much; his vocal chords had taken too much abuse and rendered his voice almost non-existent.

Trip shook his head. "Nothin'." Telling Malcolm that he looked like a wet kitten didn't seem like a good idea.

Malcolm shrugged and used another towel to rub over the wet strands. "Do you have the razor?"

Trip nodded and opened the zipper on his chest pocket, getting out a small, self-made paper envelope. Inside was the one razor blade Tom had agreed to give them, in exchange for a half-filled bottle of cheap wine Trip had found in the trash. Tom could be a reliable source of useful things, if one had enough booze to pay him.

Trip took out the blade and handed it to Malcolm, who had already pasted a layer of soap onto his stubbly cheeks. Carefully, he pulled the razor over his skin, transferring the stubbles and pinkish foam into the sink after each scrape.

Trip turned back to his own sink and began to wash his hair. The soap itched and wouldn't quite rinse out as he held his head under the faucet, but it seemed to take care of the worst dirt. When he straightened up again, the water running down the drain was almost clear.

In the meantime, Malcolm had finished shaving and was wiping the last traces of soap off his face. Trip lathered his own chin and cheeks and began removing the blond stubble, secretly relieved with every blob of foam that went down the drain. He couldn't remember having had a beard before - just as he couldn't remember not having one - but he felt decidedly better with the hair on his face gone.

"I guess we should c... clean up," Malcolm said after a while. Trip had finished scraping the last stubble off his face, grabbed a paper towel and began to clean the foam off his chin.

"Just a sec," he said. "I've gotta-"

He was cut off when the door banged against the wall. A fat man in a janitor's overall was standing on the doorstep, his large red face growing even redder as he surveyed the room. Trip was the first one to speak.

"Look-" he began, but the man had no intention of letting him finish.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" he yelled. "What the fuck do you think this is, your fuckin' bathroom?"

"Well, it is a bathroom," Trip said, and regretted it immediately when the man took a step towards him, positively spitting with fury.

"I can get you arrested for this! Goddamn hobos, coming in here and messing up the place, who do you think you are!"

"Listen..." Malcolm cleared his throat as his voice threatened to fail. "We'll c...clean it up again..."

"And he's sick, too!" Accusingly, the man pointed at Malcolm. "Do you think people wanna catch all sorts of things in here after you've been spreading your germs all over the place?"

"Look, there's no need to freak out, okay?" Trip noticed that he had raised his voice, and made a conscious effort to continue in a calmer tone. "We said we're gonna clean it up, so you won't have to worry about any germs. Just give us a few minutes and-"

"You shut up and get outta here, now! Or I'm calling the police! Take your garbage and get out!"

He pointed at the clothes they had left on the floor. Trip, deciding that there was no use talking to the man, began to pick up their things.

"Okay, okay. Keep your shirt on."

"Shut it!" The janitor, who had started to inspect the sinks as if looking for poisonous germs, turned around again. "And get a move on! Get out!"

They threw their clothes back on and left, Malcolm wrapping his scarf around his neck as they crossed the foyer and stepped back onto the street. Trip pulled his jacket tighter around his shoulders. After days of shivering in their thin overalls, they had managed to steal two jackets and a scarf from an old clothes bag, which Malcolm said was no real theft since the clothes were for homeless people, anyway. Trip didn't really care, as long as he wasn't constantly aching with cold anymore.

The wind tugged at his damp hair, and he bowed his head as they slowly made their way down the street. He would probably catch a cough along with his running nose, but he was still lucky compared to Malcolm, whose face was flushed and gleaming with sweat. Trip slowed down, careful so the other man wouldn't notice. Malcolm hated it when Trip tried to "mother" him, and would deliberately pick up his pace if he noticed that Trip was waiting for him to catch up. Trip sighed inwardly at the thought.

They trudged along the darkening street, heads down and hands buried in their pockets. Trip wasn't sure where they were going; they couldn't return to the warehouse tonight, Tom had made sure of that.

"It's Ashley's birthday, and I'll be damned if I let you boys stay here and ruin our evening," he had said, ignoring Trip's angry protests that Malcolm was sick and needed a place to spend the night. "I don't care. You come back here tonight and I'll burn all your stuff when you're gone the next day. I'll do it."

Knowing that Tom would follow through on his threat, they had seen no other choice but to give in. Now, with no idea where they would sleep tonight, Trip wished that he had put up more of an argument. Maybe they should go back now, and to hell with Tom and his idea of a romantic evening. They weren't going to freeze out here just because Ashley and Tom wanted no spectators at their little party.

Malcolm went into a coughing fit, and Trip caught him by the shoulder as he doubled over. The coughs racked Malcolm's thin form, sounding as if they were coming from deep inside his lungs. Trip bit down on his lip and held on until the coughing stopped. Malcolm stayed like he was for a moment, bent down with his arms wrapped around his middle. Trip could feel him shivering under his hands.

When he had regained his breath, Malcolm whispered something barely intelligible. Trip sighed as he caught the words.

"Oh yes, bloody hell, all right. Mal, listen, we've gotta get you inside. You can't stay out here."

"And what... do you suggest?" Awkwardly, Malcolm straightened up again and raised his head. "I assume you haven't got us rooms booked at the Hilton?"

"Wish I had." Trip looked around until his eyes fell on a park bench a few meters away. "Maybe you could sit down over there for a few minutes, and I could go and see if I can find us a place to stay."

Malcolm frowned at him. "Are you planning to break into a car, or why don't you want any company?"

Trip shook his head. "Remember those houses near the park?"

Malcolm nodded. Close to the park was one of the few parts of the district that wasn't crammed with huge tenement blocks; "uptown", as Tom called it. They had been there before to ask if anyone needed their car washed or garage cleaned, only to be chased away by a policeman patrolling the streets.

"Maybe there's a gardenshed where we could stay the night," Trip said. "No one would notice, and we'd be gone in the mornin'."

Malcolm considered, then nodded. "I'll come with you."

"Malcolm..."

Malcolm shook his head. "I'm not staying here while you get yourself arrested for trespassing. I'm coming with you."

His tone made it clear that the discussion was closed. Trip knew that there was no use in arguing with Malcolm, and decided not to waste his breath.

"Alright. But don't blame me when we get caught because you sneezed."

Malcolm glared at him and Trip grinned. Baiting the Englishman was fun, even when he was cold, sore and hungry. He had a feeling that they had been doing this for a long time, long enough for it to feel familiar even though they couldn't remember their former lives.

Malcolm coughed again, and Trip's grin faded.

"C'mon," he said, resting a hand on Malcolm's arm. "Let's get you inside."

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The streets uptown were deserted and the houses dark. The only light came from the streetlamps that lined the curb, illuminating well-trimmed front lawns and the occasional abandoned tricycle on the driveway. The trashcans, instead of filling the streets with their penetrating smell, were neatly tucked away behind garden gates and picket fences.

They walked past a small supermarket and a drugstore (Trip hated the thought that there were at least five dozen different cough medicines lined on the shelves inside), then turned into a smaller street leading towards one of the multi-faith centers that seemed to be everywhere. There were fewer streetlamps here, and the houses didn't look quite as tidy as the ones in the main street; some of them even bore a vague resemblance to the concrete boxes back downtown.

Staying close to walls and hedges, they ventured into several backyards to see if there was a gardenshed, one of them always keeping an eye on the street to see if there was anyone coming their way. The only shed they discovered, however, was locked, the rusty door handle creaking noisily when Trip pushed it down.

"Dammit!"

"Shhh!" Malcolm frowned at him and threw a look over his shoulder as if he expected someone to come around the corner of the house any second. "You'll-"

He broke off, and for a panicky second, Trip believed that Malcolm had actually seen someone. Then he realized what Malcolm was looking at - and began to smile. The house had several windows directly above ground level that lead into the basement of the building. One of them, a square just wide enough for a man to climb through, was a crack open.

Malcolm motioned at him to follow. Trip had a distinct feeling that this was something where Malcolm was in charge, just like Trip was the one who had figured out how to tinker Tom's old radio back to life. Although the fever and illness slowed him down, Malcolm seemed to know exactly how to move so no one would notice his presence in the shadows. Trip did his best to stay close to him, half expecting the lights to go on inside the house any moment. Nothing happened, however, the only sound being that of his own breathing loud in his ears.

Malcolm crouched down in front of the window. Inside, they could see the dim outlines of cupboards, chairs and something in the corner that looked like a large, bulky container.

Trip reached for the handle in the middle of the window frame. The creaking handle of the gardenshed still vividly in mind, he gave it a cautious pull. It opened without a sound, as did the other casement. Carefully, Trip stuck his head inside

"How far to the floor?" Malcolm wanted to know in a hoarse whisper.

"Maybe two meters." Trip squinted as he tried to make out the distance in the dark. "Shouldn't be a problem."

For me, at least, he added in his mind. Malcolm was stiff and sore from the fever, and Trip guessed that he was running on pure adrenaline, if the shaking of his hands was any indication.

Not bothering with an argument, he began to climb inside first, turning around so he could hold onto the window frame. He lowered himself inside until he was hanging from his fingertips, then let go. His feet had almost been touching the ground, and he landed without any noise on the cold stone floor. Outside, Malcolm made as if to follow him, but Trip gestured for him to wait. He walked over to the corner where he had seen the chairs and carried one of them over to the window, placing it so that Malcolm could use it as a stepladder.

Trip ignored the Englishman's scowl and waved at him to get a move on. "Gettin' chilly in here."

Still frowning, Malcolm began to climb inside. Trip pursed his lips when he saw how awkwardly Malcolm was moving, as if every movement were causing him a great deal of pain. He had almost made it when suddenly one of his legs gave way. Malcolm swayed and would have fallen, had Trip not stepped forward and caught him a second before he lost his balance. For a short, frozen moment, they remained as they were, Malcolm on the very edge of the chair, Trip gripping his arms hard enough to bruise, his heart thumping in chest. Then they began to move again, Malcolm allowing Trip to support him as he climbed off the chair. The near-accident had passed with hardly any noise, although for a moment Trip had been sure the chair would tip over and and catapult the people upstairs out of their beds. His knees trembled as he climbed onto the chair to close the window.

A small noise like a sigh made him turn. Malcolm was no longer standing but had slumped to the floor, half-sitting, half-lying right where Trip had left him.

"Malcolm!"

Trip stepped down from the chair and crouched down next to the other man. Malcolm's eyes were closed and he was breathing heavily. Trip's eyes were quickly getting used to the dark and he could see the film of sweat on the Englishman's forehead, as well as the sickly pallor of his face.

"Aw Malcolm."

His guess had been right; Malcolm had been pushing himself, mobilizing his last strength to get here, and was now paying the price.

Trip looked around to see if there was any way to make Malcolm more comfortable. His eyes traveled over canning jars, boxes, an old bicycle, and finally the large bulky thing in the corner. Not quite able to make out what it was, Trip squinted and recognized a backrest and two round armrests on each side... a couch.

"Be right back, Mal."

He got up and went over to take a closer look. The couch looked old and its cover was worn, but it was fairly large, big enough for a man to lie down on it if he didn't mind parking his feet on the armrest. Trip even found a blanket and several pillows on the shelf behind it, and was about to return to Malcolm when he saw that the three cushions on the couch seat could be taken off. He lifted one of them. Beneath it, there was a folded-up mattress, tucked away in the insides of the couch which apparently featured a pull-out mechanism.

Trip hesitated; the couch had definitely seen better days, and opening it might not even work, not to mention produce noises that would not only propel the inhabitants of the house out of their beds, but would sent them down here with a firing squad in tow. He decided to try anyway. Malcolm needed his rest, and he wouldn't say no to stretching out on a real mattress for a change, either.

He took the cushions off and carefully tugged at the bottom edge of the couch. At first, it didn't move, and Trip pulled a little harder, trying to lift the mattress off the ground. Something came loose inside the mechanism and the bed shot out, almost tumbling him over in the process. Trip winced at the loud creak and froze, listening for any noises from upstairs. The house remained silent and he relaxed again, inspecting the bed he had freed from its hideaway inside the couch. The mattress was large enough for two people to stretch out on it; the first real bed he had seen in ages. And he was tired. He hadn't noticed up to this point, being too occupied with finding a place to stay. Now his exhaustion was catching up with him, and he felt ready to flop down on the bed and lie unconscious for the next six hours.

First he had to take care of Malcolm, though. The other man was still sitting motionless with his shoulders slumped, and didn't even raise his head when Trip prodded him.

"Come on, Malcolm." As gently as he could, Trip tried to pull Malcolm to his feet. "Time to go to bed."

Malcolm staggered to his feet, most of his weight on Trip, who wrapped an arm around the Englishman's waist to keep him steady. Judging by the trickles of sweat on his skin, Malcolm's temperature had shot up considerably. Trip supported him all the way to the couch, his heart sinking at the rattling sound whenever Malcolm took a breath.

He helped Malcolm lie down on the bed and made sure to help him on his side so his airway wouldn't clog up. Malcolm shifted restlessly and mumbled something that sounded like "... don't need a hypo, I'm fine". Trip slid a pillow under his head and used the back of his hand to wipe the sweat off Malcolm's hot forehead, then stretched out next to him on the bed.

"That's okay," he whispered. "Try to sleep now. Wait, I've found a blanket for you."

He picked it up and spread it over the sick man so that he was covered up to his chin. Malcolm muttered again softly and rolled over so that his back was facing Trip.

"Sleep well," Trip said quietly and stuffed one of the pillows under his head, closing his eyes. After weeks of sleeping on newspaper and old cartons, this was luxury beyond comprehension. Slowly, the ache in his joints began to dissipate, leaving behind only the pleasant awareness that he was dry, warm and comfortable, something he hadn't experienced in a long time. He had almost fallen asleep when a hacking sound brought him back. Malcolm was coughing his lungs up, gasping like a drowning person.

"Shhh, it's okay." Trip rubbed Malcolm's back and waited for the coughing to die down. Finally, it did, but Malcolm was still shivering, restlessly turning his head from side to side.

"No..." he whispered and shuddered as if something cold had touched him. "No... don't... please, you can't..."

Trip had no idea what Malcolm was talking about, but the words unsettled him all the same. Something about them was familiar, and this time, the familiarity was not reassuring at all. Malcolm was still trembling, caught in his nightmare, and Trip scooted closer to him, carefully running a hand over Malcolm's damp hair.

"Shhh... it's okay. There's no one here who's gonna hurt you."

Malcolm quieted down at the sound of his voice, and Trip moved closer still, tugging at the blanket until it covered them both. He continued stroking and talking until Malcolm calmed down and lay quietly again, his sleep no longer disturbed by the nightmare. Trip lay still for a moment, listening to their breathing and wondering if he should move over again. He decided against it. The feeling of another body next to his was comforting, and he was finally, finally warm enough. He closed his eyes again, and was soon fast asleep.

TBC...

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