This is the second short chapter today. I wanted to post them separately, for style and flow reasons, although that meant that yes, they were shorties. Still, two in one day kind of makes up for their shortness. Maybe.

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Malcolm sat on his bed, legs crossed beneath him, hand cupped in his lap. Two tiny red pills sat in his palm, and he stared down at them with resignation.

He'd told Phlox about the nightmares, and although he'd left out the subject matter, he had admitted that they'd been keeping him from sleeping. The doctor had pressed him on the weight loss, but he'd explained that he'd simply been exercising, and also missing meals to catch up on lost sleep, which, point of fact, was the truth. Phlox, of course, had offered him counselling, but he'd refused, saying that he couldn't remember the actual dreams. Which was a lie. He couldn't recall all the details, no, but he knew what they'd been about. But he just couldn't... It was bad enough admitting that things had got this out of control. He could not go into the details with someone else; bad enough he had to admit them to himself.

It was fear, pure and simple. He was afraid of drowning. Always had been. It was one thing - God, it was bad enough to have to admit this to oneself, but to actually have to discuss it with a doctor, someone whose job it was to analyze, evaluate, and pick apart - No. Just, no.

Anyway, in the end, Phlox had said that there seemed to be nothing otherwise wrong with him, and suggested a short round of medication. The doctor suspected what happened on the bridge was related to sleep deprivation, and if they could get that under control, he'd be back to normal.

Back to normal. Whatever that was.

If only he hadn't... Damn it. Everything was being blown out of all proportion. He simply needed sleep. He'd been dealing with his fear - his phobia, really. He'd been dealing with it. That is, until now. Now, he was dreaming of drowning. He couldn't remember the details - those were lost to him - but he remembered enough. Why the dreams were occurring now, when they never had done before, he had no idea. And he supposed it didn't matter.

Malcolm stared at the pills in his hand. Maybe the meds would knock him out and stop the bloody dreams. Popping the pills into his mouth, he swallowed them dry.

They did work. He slept solidly from night til morn, and woke unable to remember if he'd even had dreams, never mind what they'd been about. Propping himself up on his elbows, he rubbed a weary hand across his eyes as he checked the clock. Five hours sleep. That was the most he'd had, in one go, in some time. Still, he felt odd. Honestly, he felt a bit fuzzy, and somewhat chilled despite the blankets. He suspected the medications, but he figured it was worth it, to be able to find some rest. Rather than worry about it, he rolled onto his stomach and, shoving his arm under his pillow, fell asleep again.

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