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There is sort of a cross-over with another series in this chapter, although I changed the name a little bit. I'm curious if anyone will recognize her! Disclaimer goes for all the characters involved, of course, except for those I introduced myself.

Enjoy!

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Chapter 6

The police car turned into a busy street, weaving its way towards a traffic light. Trip had been close to dozing off, but the honking horns and screeching brakes from outside jolted him awake every time his head would start to nod. He could not remember riding in a car before, but all the same, he had a vague feeling that the dashboard should look different. For some reason, he winced every time the policeman turned the steering wheel, thinking that there should be... buttons? Touch pads? He did not know. He could never quite put a finger on the feeling, but it happened almost every day that he looked at something to do with technology and inwardly shook his head.

Malcolm's head tilted forward, and Trip shifted so that it wouldn't slip off his shoulder. He could feel the warmth of Malcolm's skin against his neck, and heard the rasping that accompanied each breath.

"Almost there," he said quietly, although he had no idea how long it would take until they arrived. He simply felt that he should say something, even if Malcolm couldn't hear him.

"You should've taken him to a doctor."

Trip raised his head and found that the policewoman was watching him in the rearview mirror. There was no accusation in her eyes, only a statement of fact.

He said nothing. They had tried at one of the shelters, had asked if anyone there could take a look at Malcolm. The manager had pointed at a long line of people waiting in front of a small white tent, where two harassed nurses examined one patient a minute, all out on the open street.

"You can try," he had said. "But it's not much use lining up if you can still walk and talk. We've got to save the drugs for the worst cases."

At the time, Malcolm could not be counted among the worst cases, and so they had left without bothering to get in line. Tom had warned them against going to a real hospital.

"They'll want your ID and your social whatever number and all that sort of stuff. That is, you wouldn't even get in. They don't want no street bums hangin' round in their waitin' room."

Trip supposed that they should have tried anyway, but they had never even seriously considered it. Maybe when nobody wanted you, you stopped trusting people and asking them for help. Or maybe they had just been stupid. In any case, he had no answer to give to the policewoman, and only looked back at her without saying a word.

She sighed and turned back to the front. "There we are."

The car slowed down, then turned into an overcrowded parking lot in front of a large building. In between the ambulances, people were milling about, most of them with a tight and unhappy look on their faces. As the car pulled into a parking space, medics in fluorescent vests rushed by wheeling a gurney towards the double glass doors of the entrance. Trip couldn't see the person on the gurney, and only heard their shouts as they disappeared inside.

The policeman shut off the engine and half turned around. "Can he walk? 'Cause they never have any weelchairs left."

Trip nudged Malcolm's arm. "Mal? Malcolm? Gotta wake up now."

Malcolm's eyes cracked open, and he raised a hand as if to wipe the sweat off his forehead, but stopped half way to his face. "W-where...?"

"We're at the hospital," Trip said. "Do you think you can walk? It's not far."

"I don't think it's safe, sir," Malcolm said, slurring the words as if he were drunk.

Trip frowned. The things Malcolm said in his feverish delirium were unsettling in their familiarity and confusing, as they made no sense at all. Some of the words in particular, like targeting scanners or phasing pistols (Trip wasn't sure he remembered that one right), sounded strange and at the same time stirred a feeling as if he should remember something; something which kept eluding him the harder he tried to recall it.

Malcolm muttered something else, about a commanding officer not leaving the ship, and laid his head back on Trip's shoulder, closing his eyes. The policewoman sighed and got out of the car.

"I'll go and see if they have a wheelchair," she said. "Be right back, Bill."

He nodded. "'Kay."

After she had left, Bill leaned forward and began to rummage through the glove compartment until he had found something wrapped in black and red foil. He pulled the wrapping off with his teeth, and Trip saw that it was a chocolate bar. The sight immediately made his mouth water, and he quickly looked away. It was more than twelve hours ago when he had last had something to eat.

"Want one?" Bill was looking at him, eyebrows raised.

Trip nodded. "Yeah," he said. "Thanks."

He tried not to seem too desperate as he tore the plastic wrapping off the candy bar and quickly stuffed half of it into his mouth. It was sweet and sticky and better than anything he had eaten in a long time. Still chewing, he wrapped the second half back into the foil to save it for later, and was about to put it into his pocket when he noticed Bill's look.

"You can have another one, y'know," the policeman said, his voice a mixture of amusement and pity. "Far as I know, there's a whole bunch in there."

Trip's cheeks reddened when Bill reached into the compartment again and produced another candy bar.

"Thanks," he muttered, suddenly very aware of his shabby appearance and hungry face. He slipped the second bar into his pocket and took out the other one, unwrapped it and ate it, avoiding Bill's eyes.

"What's your name?" the policeman wanted to know, obviously trying to break the awkward silence.

Trip looked up again. "Charles Tucker," he introduced himself

"And him?" Bill pointed at Malcolm.

"Malcolm Reed."

Bill nodded. "You from here?" he asked then.

Trip hesitated. "I think so," he said and instantly wished he could take the words back. Great. Now he thinks you're a poor bastard and stupid.

Bill chuckled. "You think so?"

Trip only shrugged, too tired to think of an explanation for his pointless answer. It wasn't even the truth; he didn't think Malcolm and he were from here.

Bill looked as if he wanted to ask something else, but to Trip's relief he was distracted by his colleague, who had returned pushing a wheelchair, which she parked next to the car.

"How did you do that?" Bill asked.

She grinned and shrugged. "They shouldn't leave those things standing around in there. Someone might just take them."

Bill shook his head. "Well, let's get Sleeping Beauty inside before they notice that it's gone."

Moving Malcolm into the wheelchair was easier said than done, but eventually they managed. As they passed the entrance to the building, they were almost run over by another team of medics, who had a gurney with a screaming girl between them. The girl's black hair and left cheek were covered with drying blood.

Trip looked after them as they rushed down the hallway and disappeared in one of the rooms. No one seemed to spare them so much as a glance, even though the Emergency Room was crammed full of people. There was no empty seat left in the waiting area, and so they parked the wheelchair next a wall. Trip surveyed the rows of benches and saw people sleeping, people gazing into thin air, people muttering with their neighbors. No one looked as if they had much hope of leaving any time soon.

"Officers?" A nurse had appeared out of nowhere, holding a stack of pale-green cards. She gave Malcolm a quick once-over, then turned back to the police officers. "Can I help you?"

"Yes," Bill's colleague said. "We got a call because these two broke into a basement. He-" she pointed at Malcolm, whose head had sunken to his chest - "-didn't look so good, so we took him here. He's been out of it for a while now."

The nurse leaned down and lifted Malcolm's chin. Malcolm's face was pale with tiny drops of perspiration, which trickled down his forehead as she moved his head. The nurse frowned and let go of him again, then handed Bill one of the green cards.

"Fill that in for him," she said. "I'll go check if one of the doctors has time for you."

Bill took a pen out of his chest pocket. "Thanks."

She nodded and left. Trip wasn't sure whether to feel worried or relieved; the fact that Malcolm had been moved to the top of the list meant that they wouldn't have to spend hours in the waiting room; it also meant that Malcolm's condition was serious enough to make a whole bunch of sick people wait even longer for their turn.

"Does he have any papers?"

Trip turned his head and found Bill looking at him, pen poised over the green form the nurse had given him.

"No," Trip said. At least I don't think so, he added in thought.

Bill raised his eyebrows. "Nothing? No ID? Social security number? Driver's license?"

Trip mutely shook his head. He wasn't even sure what a social security number was, let alone how to get one.

Bill's eyebrows climbed even higher, as if he couldn't quite believe it. "Well... what about his birthday? He does have one, doesn't he?"

"September 2, 2121," Trip answered without thinking. A moment's silence followed, both police officers staring at him as if he had suddenly grown a second head. Trip frowned. Then he realized what was wrong, and felt himself blushing.

"2021, I mean," he said, although deep down, something was telling him that it wasn't true. He had meant 2121, even though it didn't make any sense at all.

Bill gave him a strange look, then proceeded to fill in the date.

"I don't suppose you know where he was born?"

"England, I think," Trip said, and Bill scribbled it on the form.

"Anything else? Medical history? Parents? Relatives?"

Trip only shook his head, tempted to make something up just so he could say something. If the two police officers hadn't thought that he was a few sandwiches short of a picnic so far, then they certainly did now. The look Bill exchanged with his colleague seemed to say as much.

"I guess it'll have to do." Bill scratched the back of his head as he read through the form. He paused, then turned away a little and scribbled something else onto the sheet. Trip strained his head, but he couldn't make out the words, and a moment later Bill turned the form around so that its front was concealed from view.

Trip was still debating whether he should ask him about it when the nurse returned. "Room 4," she said and took the green form from Bill's hand. She quickly read through what little information was on there, then motioned for them to follow her. "This way."

Trip tried to catch a glimpse of the form, but the nurse had already slipped it into her pocket. They went down the hallway and around a corner, where the nurse opened a door to one of the rooms. Bill steered Malcolm's wheelchair inside, his colleague and Trip following shortly after.

"Help him lie down and take his shirt off," the nurse said, nodding at the examination bed in the middle of the room. "The doctor will be with you in a minute."

She left and Trip resigned to the fact that there was no discreet way of finding out what Bill had written onto the form that he wouldn't show him. Together with the two police officers, he half-carried, half-led Malcolm over to the bed and helped him lie down on top of it. Malcolm let it happen, and only raised a hand in feeble protest when Trip began to take off his jacket.

"Cold," he croaked.

"I know," Trip said. "It's only for a moment so the doctor can take a look at you."

"No doctor," Malcolm whispered. Trip wasn't sure if he wanted to say that there was no doctor or that he didn't want to see a doctor, and only shook his head in reply.

"It's okay, Mal."

Malcolm closed his eyes again and said nothing when Trip lowered the top part of his overall and took off the two shirts underneath. Bill watched with his eyebrows raised.

"That some sort of club dress?" he asked, nodding first at Malcolm's overall, then at Trip's.

Wish I knew, Trip replied in thought. Aloud he said, "Lady at the welfare office gave them to us. I've no idea where they came from."

Bill didn't look convinced, but was distracted when the door opened. A small, brunette woman in a white coat entered the room, smiling as she surveyed the small group assembled there.

"I'm April Lockhart," she introduced herself. "Officers..."

Bill and his colleague nodded a greeting, and she looked at Trip. "And you are...?"

"Charles Tucker," Trip said and dragged up a smile for her. "Pleased to meet you."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bill raising his eyebrows at the doctor and Dr. Lockhart giving an almost imperceptible nod in return. Trip had no idea what their silent exchange was all about, and decided to ignore it for the moment. He wasn't going to make a fool of himself - more than he already had - by asking.

Dr. Lockhart went over to the examination table where Malcolm had fallen asleep, snoring quietly. She laid a hand on his arm and shook him gently.

"Mr. Reed?" she asked. "Can you hear me? I need you to wake up."

Trip took an instant liking to her. She must have concluded from the triage form that Malcolm was an ordinary street bum, someone who had to break into houses to have a place to spend the night, and yet she addressed him like any other patient.

Malcolm opened his eyes and turned his head in confusion.

"I'm Dr. Lockhart," she introduced herself again. "I'll need to examine your chest to find out what's wrong with you. Do you think you can sit up?"

"No eels," Malcolm croaked.

Dr. Lockhart nodded, as if his statement made absolute sense to her. "No eels," she agreed. "Maybe your friend could help you sit up."

She looked at Trip, who walked over to the bed and slid an arm under Malcolm's shoulders.

"C'mon, Mal. The doctor's gotta take a look at your chest."

Malcolm allowed himself to be helped into a sitting position, leaning heavily on Trip for support. Dr. Lockhart took off the stethoscope around her neck and inserted the plugs into her ears, then laid the disc on Malcolm's chest.

"Try to take a deep breath, Mr. Reed."

Malcolm didn't seem to have heard her, his eyes drifting closed again. Trip nudged his arm.

"Malcolm. Take a deep breath."

Malcolm's eyes opened again and he sat up a little straighter, drawing in a deep breath. Dr. Lockhart's eyebrows pulled together.

"Hmmm."

She moved the chestpiece a little to the left and listened again. After a few moments, she lowered the stethoscope and began to tap lightly onto Malcolm's chest.

"What's wrong with him?" the policewoman asked from the background. "Can you tell?"

Dr. Lockhart straightened up again, hooking the stethoscope back around her neck. "He's got pneumonia," she said and looked at Trip. "When did he start to feel sick?"

"Two weeks ago," Trip admitted in shame. Why hadn't they come here earlier? "We didn't know it was so bad," he added, aware how lame that sounded.

Dr. Lockhart only nodded. "It is quite bad. His lungs are seriously infected. I guess he started coughing up blood or pus?"

Trip nodded. "He coughed up a little blood when he woke up a few hours ago."

"I thought so." She turned away from the bed and walked over to the intercom on the wall next to the door. "I'm going to call the nurses to take him to the X-ray room. That okay with you, Mr. Reed?"

Malcolm raised his head at the mention of his name, but he didn't seem to have caught the question.

"Tired," he whispered, and made as if to lie back down. Trip gently caught him by the arm. He wasn't sure exactly where Dr. Lockhart wanted to take Malcolm - he had heard the word X-ray before, but for some reason it wasn't something he associated with medical procedures. It didn't matter, though; they would do whatever was necessary to help Malcolm get better.

"Just a little longer, Mal. Then you can sleep all you want."

"That's right." Dr. Lockhart had returned to the table. "We're going to take an X-ray of your chest to see which areas of your lungs are infected. Have you had an X-ray taken before, Mr. Reed?"

She looked at Trip, who shook his head in reply. Somehow, he was fairly sure that Malcolm had never been submitted to any such procedure.

Dr. Lockhart nodded. "It's part of the normal examination procedure. You'll be placed in front of an X-ray tube and someone will take a picture of your thorax. You'll feel nothing at all."

"Then sleep," Malcolm muttered, and she smiled.

"Yes, then we'll leave you alone so you can sleep."

Malcolm nodded and closed his eyes, a feeble cough shaking his body. Trip noticed Dr. Lockhart's worried look and once more wished he had insisted on Malcolm seeing a doctor, no matter how much the Englishman had groused and grumbled at the idea. If Malcolm was seriously, maybe even fatally ill... Trip tried not to think of how it would be, all alone out there on the streets, trying to survive on a day-by-day basis without a single thing or person to hold on to. It was a selfish way of thinking about it, but he needed Malcolm. He wasn't sure if he would make it on his own.

The door opened and two nurses with a wheeled gurney entered the room. Trip watched as they positioned it next to the examination table, then helped Malcolm lie down on it. Malcolm submitted, closing his eyes as a blanket settled over him and the security straps were pulled tight.

Trip started to follow as they wheeled Malcolm out of the room, but was stopped when Dr. Lockhart laid a hand on his arm.

"Mr. Tucker? Do you have a moment?"

Again, she exchanged a strange look with the two police officers, as if they shared a common understanding Trip was no part of. Bill nodded and turned towards the door.

"Well, we'd better get going then. Thanks, doctor."

Dr. Lockhart nodded at them. "I'll call you when I can tell you more."

"Thanks for your help," Trip added quickly.

"That's okay. Good luck," Bill said to him, his voice carrying an undertone of... pity? Trip frowned as they left, wondering what the hell was going on here. Something was off, and he had a distinct feeling that it had something to do with the triage form Bill had filled out. But why wouldn't they tell him? If Malcolm's condition was more serious than the doctor had let on, then he, of all people, had a right to know.

"Mr. Tucker?" Dr. Lockhart said. "I need to talk to you."

"About what?" It came out more defensively than he had intended, but she didn't seem to mind.

"I've got a feeling that there's something you're not telling us."

"Like what?" Trip asked, nervous in spite of himself. If she believed that he was somehow responsible for Malcolm's condition... his thoughts returned to Tom's battered boyfriend scenario. They would be separated, and Trip knew that he could not let that happen. He and Malcolm needed to stay together.

He was so occupied with the idea that her next question completely threw him off track. "Are you or Mr. Reed into drugs, Mr. Tucker?"

He stared at her. "No, we're not. Why are you askin'?"

She merely held his eyes, and he found himself getting more defensive by the second. "Look, I know I sort of messed up his dates for the registration form, but that's just because..."

... because all I really know is his name and birthday.

"... because he lost his papers. We came into the city only a few days ago, to look for work, and-"

"Mr. Tucker." She sighed. "No one comes here to look for work, not these days. I wish you'd stop lying to me. If you want us to help you, you'll have to tell me the truth."

"I would, if I could," Trip said angrily, and immediately wanted to clap a hand over his mouth.

"If you could?" Dr. Lockhart repeated, surprise showing in her voice. "What do you mean?"

"Nothin'."

"Nothing?"

"Nothin'. I've no idea how we came to be here in this goddamn city. I don't know where we were before or what we did. Hell, I don't even know who I am." He had never intended to say all this; the words seemed to come out all on their own, as if they had been held back for far too long. "We woke up in a backstreet 'bout three weeks ago, and couldn't remember anythin'. I've no idea what happened to us. All I know..." He trailed off, not sure how to describe the snippets of memories that sometimes cropped up in his mind. "All I know is that I've known Malcolm before, and that we don't belong here. This place, this city... it feels wrong."

He turned back to her, and for the first time realized how utterly crazy all of this must sound to her.

"You don't believe me, do you?"

She sighed. "I believe you. The police officer who brought you here wrote on the triage chart that you seemed confused to him. No offense, but you do seem a little... out of sorts."

Trip chuckled mirthlessly. Understatement of the century, he thought. He'd be the last one to deny that he and Malcolm were "confused", as she put it.

"Mr. Tucker..." Dr. Lockhart held his eyes as she continued. "Among other things, amnesia can be caused by excessive drug consumption. Are you sure you haven't experienced any withdrawal symptoms after you woke up? Headaches? Nausea?"

Trip was about to shake his head when he realized that he would be telling a lie, claiming that he hadn't experienced any of these things. The thing was, he couldn't tell. For all he knew, he and Malcolm might have had the junkie party of their lives before they had passed out.

"I don't know," he admitted. "But it would be sort of strange for both of us to lose our memories at the same time, wouldn't it? Even if we... took somethin', I mean."

"Some drugs can have unique effects if consumed in a high enough dosage," she replied. "We'll find out about that. To tell the truth, you don't look like drug addicts to me, but we've got to check all possibilities." She paused. "Mr. Tucker... we'll have to keep Mr. Reed here anyway, but I'd suggest that you stay as well. We can take tests to find out what is wrong with you, and maybe find a way to help you. If you agree, we'll admit you and Mr. Reed to the Psych Ward."

Trip said nothing for a moment. He couldn't even come out with the obligatory "But I'm not crazy"; for what he knew, he might be as nutty as a fruitcake.

Dr. Lockhart seemed to have picked up on his thoughts. "I'm not suggesting that you are in need of psychiatric treatment," she said. "You do seem to have a problem, though. If you agree to stay, there's a chance that we can help you."

Trip lowered his eyes, looking down at his cold-bitten hands. Maybe she was right. And even if their "problem" remained unchanged... there was food in a Psych Ward, right? Food and clean clothes and a bed to sleep in. And he and Malcolm would stay together.

He raised his head. "Okay," he said. It wasn't nearly as hard as he had imagined it would be. "Okay. I'll stay."

TBC…

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