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Chapter 7

Trip lay on his bed next to the window, hands folded behind his head. Outside, the city was coming to life as the sun disappeared behind the horizon, endless rows of lamps and windows illuminating the darkening streets. Idly, he wondered how much energy the inhabitants used every night to keep their city nice and bright, and was surprised when his mind provided him with a more or less exact number. He had no idea why he would know such things, although it did seem that details centered around technology came to him quite naturally. The day before, he had even fixed the TV in the common room, a gaggle of nurses and patients watching him and offering the occasional suggestion, the greater part of them obviously convinced that he had no idea what he was doing. Truth was, he hadn't; he had simply followed his instincts, with the result of a functioning TV twenty minutes later. Trip smiled a little as he remembered their faces. After being kicked out and chased away from pretty much everywhere for three weeks, he had to admit that a little appreciation did a world of good.

He turned his head and looked at the other bed where Malcolm lay sleeping. Malcolm had done little else for the last three days since they had been admitted to the Psych Ward, and Dr. Lockhart, who dropped by from time to time, said that he was beginning to recover. Trip, for his part, saw no difference; Malcolm was still as pale as he had been, a canula in his nose to provide him with additional oxygen and another tube in his hand to supply a steady flow of fluids and antibiotics. The doctors, however, were confident that it was only a matter of time until he would get better, and Trip was glad to believe them. He knew Malcolm had been damn lucky; a few more days out on the cold and windy streets, and he might not have made it. Like Dr. Lockhart had said, breaking into the basement was the best thing they could have possibly done.

In the meantime, the last of the sunlight had faded away, leaving the room in semi-darkness. Trip switched on his bed lamp, turning over so he was facing Malcolm's bed and the door. As most of the patients went to bed right after dinner, all noise more or less ceased after 7 pm, and he found himself getting tired simply because it was so quiet. He slept a lot these days, mostly because there was little else for him to do: watching TV in the common room wasn't a lot of fun with a bunch of old geezers commenting on everything that happened on the screen, and he had finished both of the old paperback novels he had found. The only change were Dr. Lockharts visits, and she never stayed for long.

Trip's eyes had started to close when a quiet cough from the other bed brought him back. Malcolm coughed a second time, and then raised a hand to his mouth.

"Malcolm?" Trip asked, propping himself up on one elbow. "You awake?"

He hadn't expected it, but Malcolm turned his head to look at him, his eyes still puffy from sleeping and rimmed with red. His hair was mussed and a five o'clock shadow darkened his jaw.

"Trip?" he asked in a hoarse voice. "What time is it?"

"'Bout 8.30," Trip answered. He got up and went over to Malcolm's bed, pulling up a chair to sit down next to him. "How're you feelin'?"

Malcolm cleared his throat. "Tired," he said then. "How long was I asleep?"

"You were in and out for about three days," Trip answered and smiled when Malcolm's eyes widened. "You woke up a few times, but you were never really there. Dr. Lockhart said it's normal. You were in a pretty bad state when we came here."

"The last thing I remember clearly is falling asleep in a basement," Malcolm said. "Someone found us, didn't they?"

Trip nodded. "The lady upstairs called the police. When they saw how bad you were doin', they decided to take us to the hospital."

Malcolm frowned as he digested the information. Then he glanced at Trip's bed. "They let you stay?"

"Well..." Trip hesitated, not sure how Malcolm was going to take the next part. "I told Dr. Lockhart about our, well, they say it's amnesia. They've admitted us to the Psych Ward."

Malcolm was silent for a moment, his face not giving away what he was thinking. Then he asked quietly, "I've been here the whole time?"

"Yeah. They wanted to put you in General Medicine first, but there was no bed available, and Dr. Lockhart talked the doctors here into admittin' you. She's been droppin' by to check on you."

Malcolm nodded and turned his head to look out the window. The red and white lights reflected on his face, outlining his sunken cheeks.

"Well," he said after a moment, turning back to Trip, "at least there are no bars in front of the windows. That would be rather depressing."

It was said with a smirk, and Trip smiled a little in response. He had thought the exact same thing when he had first come in here. "Naw. They're not lockin' us up. We're not supposed to leave the ward, but 'cept for the main entrance the doors aren't secured. No straitjackets either," he added with a small chuckle.

Still smirking, Malcolm shook his head. "I'm not sure I should be saying this, but I believe I prefer this to sleeping in a warehouse or some stranger's basement."

Trip nodded. "Yeah, me too."

They were silent for a few minutes, then Malcolm asked quietly, "What's going to happen now? Do you know?"

"They're testin' us for drugs," Trip replied. At Malcolm's sharp turn of the head, he added, "Dr. Lockhart thinks we might've lost our memories because we got high on the wrong stuff."

Malcolm slowly shook his head, considering. "No," he said then. "I'm not sure why, but I know that this didn't happen because we were using. I can't really explain why, but..."

"Yeah," Trip said, thinking of the occasional glimpse his mind allowed him of what he believed to be his former life. "They insist on checkin', though." He paused. "Maybe there's somethin' they can do, even if the tests turn out negative. I mean..."

He trailed off, not sure what it was that he had wanted to say. He didn't believe that the doctors would find the mental equivalent of a button to magically recover their memories; things didn't work that way, he knew that. Still... this couldn't be it, could it? A lifetime of rummaging through trashcans and sleeping in abandoned warehouses, recalling their former lives - their identities - only in dreams and rare feelings of déjà vu. There had to be something more, something they could do, even if it took allowing a bunch of doctors to poke and prod their heads.

"You're an optimist, you know that?"

Malcolm was looking at him, a smile playing around his lips. Trip sighed.

"Yeah, well. Goes with the territory, I guess."

Malcolm only nodded.

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The following morning, Trip woke up to the sound of rain pattering on the window. The sky was gray and the city looked even less inviting than usual, soaked in water and the dirt that was coming down with the rain. Trip thought of Tom back in his warehouse and hoped that the old man hadn't decided to spend the night in a doorway as he sometimes did. Briefly, he wondered if Tom would worry about them when they didn't come back, and then decided that he wouldn't. Tom was a nice enough guy, but he wasn't given to sentimentalities. And their makeshift beds in the warehouse would soon be occupied by someone else, maybe someone who would have more booze to share and who wouldn't draw Ashley's pitying looks by coughing their lungs out. No, it wasn't likely that Tom was going to miss them.

Trip rolled over on his back. Malcolm was still sleeping, his blanket drawn all the way to his chin. The hand with the IV was resting next to him, palm turned upwards so that the needle was pressing into the pillow.

Pushing his own blanket aside, Trip got up and walked on bare feet over to Malcolm's bed. Gently, so as not to wake the sleeping man, he took Malcolm's hand and turned it around, straightening the tube so that the flow of the medication was no longer impeded. Malcolm shifted a little and sighed, then curled his fingers around the blanket and pulled it over his face. Trip smiled at the sight and stood there for a moment, listening to Malcolm's even breathing. Then he turned away and picked up his clothes from the chair where he had left them. On his arrival, the nurses had given him sweatpants and two t-shirts, taking his and Malcolm's clothes away for cleaning. For some strange reason, giving up the blue jumpsuits hadn't felt right, grimy and unwashed as they were. The jumpsuits were the only things left from their former lives, and without them, Trip felt as if something were missing. He had said nothing, however, not wanting to appear ungrateful. He couldn't have explained the feeling, anyway.

He went into the small bathroom and paused for a moment to look at the face in the mirror. It was not quite as thin as it had been when he had first come here, the shadows under his eyes not quite as dark. It also helped that he could shave regularly; with the stubble gone, Trip felt a lot less like the typical scruffy street bum.

He took off his hospital PJs and stepped into the shower, closing his eyes as the warm water began to pour down on him. This was luxury, and he intended to enjoy every second of it. Clean clothes, food, a bed... it was amazing how much these things mattered. In the past three days, he had begun to feel like a different person, someone who had the time and energy to think about things other than the daily necessities. Repairing the TV had been such a thing; he had enjoyed the feel of the tools in his hands, the way he instinctively seemed to know what to do. It had been... fun. Yeah. Something he would like to do again, even if it wasn't essential or important. Just because.

He left the shower, shaved and dressed, then wiped the steam off the mirror to examine the cold sore in the corner of his mouth. With the cream the nurse had given him, it was starting to disappear as well; another reminder of his life on the streets that he wouldn't miss.

As he left the bathroom, he found Malcolm awake and sitting up in bed, talking to Nurse Collins, the middle-aged woman who came by their room every morning.

"... if you're feeling well enough," she was saying as Trip closed the door behind himself.

"Mornin'", he said, and she turned around.

"Ah, Mr. Tucker." She smiled. "You're up early."

"Yeah, the rain woke me up." He smiled at her and went over to his bed. "Mornin', Mal."

Malcolm only nodded back at him, looking altogether quite unhappy.

"I was just telling Mr. Reed that we can remove his catheter if he's feeling up to using a bedpan," Nurse Collins continued cheerfully. "Right, Mr. Reed?"

She didn't wait for an answer and pulled back the blankets before Malcolm could make a grab for them. Trip turned to the window as if he had never seen anything more fascinating than the cars on their way downtown, and only turned back when the nurse announced that they were done.

"That wasn't so bad, now was it, Mr. Reed?" she asked, and Malcolm obediently shook his head.

She went into the bathroom and returned with a basin full of water that she set down on the rolling night stand and pulled it close to the bed.

"Now if you'd like to wash, and maybe Mr. Tucker could bring you back some breakfast. You were going to get yourself breakfast, right, Mr. Tucker?" She smiled at Trip, who got up from his bed. He wasn't really hungry yet, but had learned soon enough that it was better not to argue with Nurse Collins if one knew what was good for oneself.

"Yeah, I was just about to go. What would you like, Malcolm?"

Malcolm opened his mouth, but the nurse was quicker.

"Just a little oatmeal for starters," she said. "That okay with you, Mr. Reed?"

"Oatmeal's fine, thank you," he answered, and she turned her bright smile on him again.

"Great." She handed him a washcloth, then looked back at Trip. "That's very nice of you, Mr. Tucker."

"That's okay."

He left and closed the door behind himself, grinning a little as he heard her tell Malcolm not to forget his ears. Nurse Collins was a mother of three little children, and seemed to regard her patients in much the same light as her offspring: helpless and in need of a firm guiding hand.

Trip made his way down the hallway, which was mostly empty except for old Mr. Levine, who got up at 4.30 every day and wandered through the ward until it was time for breakfast.

Trip nodded at him and went into the cafeteria, where the patients who could walk collected their meals three times a day. Except for the orderly on duty, who was sitting at one of the tables drinking coffee and reading his newspaper, the room was still deserted. Trip picked up one of the trays and, as every day, marveled at the variety of choice the breakfast buffet provided. He had heard some of the other patients complain about the food, but could not really understand why; to him, every meal seemed to offer an abundance of delicacies. Well, maybe he was the wrong person to ask, considering that he had been rummaging through trashcans only a few days ago.

He piled a stack of toast on his plate, adding slices of bacon and a helping of scrambled eggs, then scooped Malcolm's oatmeal into a bowl and added it to the collection on his tray. He got a cup of coffee for himself and tea for Malcolm, and on the spur of the moment took a plate with two pancakes. He wasn't particularly fond of pancakes himself, but for some reason he had a feeling that Malcolm would like them. After Nurse Collins was gone, of course.

Malcolm had finished washing when Trip returned to their room, sitting back on his freshly changed bed and watching the nurse as she changed Trip's sheets, his hair still damp and falling into his forehead.

"We should get someone to cut your hair," Nurse Collins remarked cheerfully as she served Malcolm his tea and oatmeal and tucked a paper napkin under his chin. "Tidy you up a little, hm?"

Trip stared at her for a moment. There it was again, the uncanny feeling that she reminded him of someone he used to know. The vague image of a plump figure and a round, smiling face appeared in his mind, but was gone again in a matter of seconds. Only the familiar feeling of déjà vu remained, so strong that he could not write it off as an illusion.

"Mr. Tucker?"

He blinked. Nurse Collins was watching him with raised eyebrows. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he said and stood his tray on the small table, sitting down. "Yeah, I just... remembered somethin'."

She smiled and turned to the door. "Well, I'll see you later, then. Oh, and Mr. Tucker, please take your dishes back when you're done."

He resisted the urge to answer "Yes mom" and nodded, watching her leave. Then he looked at Malcolm, who was slowly and without much enthusiasm eating his oatmeal.

"Looks good," he said.

"Yeah," Malcolm replied with a wistful glance at Trip's bacon, and lifted another spoonful. "It does."

He ate a few more bites, then put the spoon aside.

"That oatmeal's great stuff," Trip said. "I wish they'd had some more, but yours was the last bit I could scrape outta the bowl. It's the first thing gone every mornin'."

"Really," Malcolm said. He picked up the spoon again, ate another mouthful and smiled a little. "Well, it's actually quite good, really."

Trip could no longer keep a straight face and cracked up, laughing even harder when Malcolm's eyes widened in realization.

"Want a pancake, Mal?"

Malcolm had taken a deep breath, very likely with the intention of telling Trip just what he thought of Americans trying to be funny, but let it out again when he saw the pancakes. A reluctant smile began to spread on his face, and he set the oatmeal aside.

"Give me those, idiot."

Trip was still grinning as he carried the pancakes over to Malcolm's bed. "Jus' be quick, or Nurse Collins will have my head on a platter."

"And it would serve you right." Malcolm began to pluck apart one of the pancakes as Trip returned to his own breakfast. "After all, you're disregarding medical orders." He popped one of the pieces into his mouth. "I'm not up to having solid food, you know."

Trip shook his head in mock resignation. "You risk your neck for a guy and that's what you get for it."

Malcolm had opened his mouth to reply when suddenly the door opened. Expecting to see a wrathful nurse on the doorstep, Trip turned around, his guilty expression mirrored on Malcolm's face. Instead of Nurse Collins, however, Dr. Lockhart entered the room, smiling when she saw them.

"Good morning," she said. "Good to see you awake, Mr. Reed."

She went over to the bed to shake his hand. "I'm April Lockhart, the doctor who admitted you. I don't think you'll remember me, you were quite out of it at the time."

Malcolm smiled. "I don't really remember much of that day. Thank you for your help, doctor."

"You're welcome. How are you feeling today?"

"Better," Malcolm replied, discreetly moving the plate with the half-eaten pancakes to his nightstand. "Much better, actually."

Dr. Lockhart glanced at the plate and smiled a little, but she said nothing and turned to Trip instead.

"How are you doing, Mr. Tucker? If I may say so, you look a lot better than three days ago."

"I feel a lot better, too." Trip placed his fork on the now empty plate and leaned back in his chair. "The food here's fantastic."

She laughed. "I'll be sure to tell the kitchen staff. They'll mark the day red in their calendar, usually all they get is complaints."

Well, it sure beats pizza from the garbage can, Trip thought but did not say, merely smiling in response. He didn't want her to think that he was fishing for sympathy.

"Are our test results back from the lab yet?" he asked instead, remembering that she had mentioned last time that it was only going to take another day or two.

Dr. Lockhart sat down on the chair opposite to his. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about," she said. "It's a good thing you're awake, Mr. Reed. I'll need your opinion on this, too."

She looked at them both before she continued. "The results are back, and they're negative. We've tested you for every drug we've encountered in addict patients, and it's obvious that you were on none of them. However..." She paused. "This isn't easy for me to explain."

Trip frowned. "Is there somethin' else wrong with us, doctor?" Except for the obvious, I mean.

"Yes and no. As the lab assistant ran the tests, he found another substance in your blood, one he couldn't identify. In fact, none of us has ever seen it before, and even the specialist we asked didn't recognize it. The only thing she could tell is that it doesn't seem to be a chemical found in nature."

"So it's a synthetic substance?" Malcolm asked.

"We believe so. Although we have no idea where it came from. The specialist said she never saw anything remotely like it." Dr. Lockhart's face became very serious. "Do you have any idea, or suspicion, why there would be such a substance in your bodies? Anything at all?"

Malcolm shook his head, and Trip echoed the gesture. "Sorry doctor."

She sighed. "I didn't think so. Well..." Again, she hesitated. "I'm not sure if you're aware of the current political situation."

Trip frowned, thrown off track by the sudden non-sequitur. "Not really," he answered then. "Like I said, it was all gone when we woke up. We know about the energy crisis, but everythin' else..." He shrugged.

She nodded. "Yes, well, all you really need to know that we don't exactly live in stable times. The government is keeping a close eye on all public facilities, including hospitals. Which means that I've got to report all... unusual cases. Including yours."

Trip said up a little straighter. "What did they say?"

"The officials I talked to were very interested in your case." She paused, holding Trip's eyes. "They agree with me that there's a possibility that someone did this to you, gave you something to erase your memories."

"That's what I thought," Malcolm said quietly from the bed.

Dr. Lockhart nodded at him. "It's something we have to take into account. The government officials certainly intend to do so. And... they're worried that you might come across the wrong people if you go out there again. There's no telling what knowledge you had, or how much damage it could do if you recover your memories."

Trip was silent for a moment. Then he asked, "So they want us to stay here?"

She shook her head. "This isn't a long-stay ward. You'll be transferred as soon as Mr. Reed's feeling better, in two weeks at the latest."

Trip frowned, not sure whether he liked the sound of that statement. It seemed as if everything had been decided before Dr. Lockhart had even entered this room. "We don't really get a say in this, do we?" he asked, trying to sound neutral.

"I'm afraid not. I wish they had talked to you first, but that's not the way they do things. Still... I believe it's the best for your own safety. There may be people out there desperate to get the knowledge you had."

Trip exchanged a look with Malcolm. He could see that the other man, too, was less than happy about the way this was going - to all intents and purposes, they were going to be locked up. The doctor was right, however. Maybe the streets were not safe, maybe there were people looking for them... people with little or no sentimentalities.

"So..." Malcolm said. "Are they going to send us to prison? Or some sort of custody camp?"

Dr. Lockhart looked a little shocked. "No, of course not. You'll be committed to a psychiatric hospital, where the doctors will try and help you. You're not being punished, Mr. Reed."

She didn't quite meet his eyes, however, and Trip heard the unease in her tone only too clearly. It wasn't hard to guess that she was giving them the softened version of what the government officials had said, that their commitment to the hospital was more about defusing a potential threat than anything else.

"Did they say anything about how long they want us to stay there?" he asked, although he had a feeling that he already knew the answer. As he had expected, the doctor shook her head.

"No, I'm afraid not. I guess they want to keep an eye on you, though, since they expressly want you committed to a state-sponsored hospital."

Trip noticed her less-than-enthusiastic tone and raised his eyebrows. "That's bad news, I take it?"

She sighed. "Well, not really. You couldn't afford a private clinic, anyway. It's just that the state-sponsored facilities are... well, they're never as good as the private ones, of course."

A moment's silence ensued. Trip stared at the crumbs that were left on his plate, trying to think of something he could say or do that would make a difference. He knew that in a strictly rational sense, a psychiatric hospital was still better than the warehouse; hell, only the fact that they would have beds to sleep in should decide him for good. And maybe they would be safe there. Maybe the doctors would even find a way to help them. Still, though... no one had asked them to give their consent. And he was pretty sure that if Dr. Lockhart had not come here to talk to them, no one would have bothered to inform them about the impending transfer at all.

"I wouldn't worry too much if I were you." Dr. Lockhart finally broke the silence, obviously trying to sound upbeat. "You'll be in good hands, and you're staying together. I told them that we wouldn't sign the transfer permission otherwise."

Trip hadn't considered the possibility of being sent to different institutions so far, and only now realized that it might even seem like a good idea to the officials. Committing them to different hospitals would certainly make it harder to trace their whereabouts.

"Thanks, doctor," Malcolm said, and Trip saw his own relief reflected in the British man's eyes. Facing an indefinite stay in a mental asylum was depressing enough... facing it alone would be unbearable.

Dr. Lockhart seemed to have read his thoughts. She smiled. "You're welcome. And I'd like you to know that you can contact me anytime if there's something wrong. I'll give you my cellphone number before you leave."

"Thanks," Trip said and answered her smile, pretending that he hadn't noticed the worry in her tone.

Optimism, he thought, remembering Malcolm's remark of the previous night. I guess it does go with the territory.

He had a feeling that he would be needing it... now more than ever.

TBC...

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